Don't Speak of the Night
by Lady Trueword
Summary: Erik is supernaturally healed and starts a new life with a new identity. But will he be able to overcome his past and find happiness? A spiritual EC story mostly based on the 2004 movie.
1. Chapter 1

**Don't Speak of the Night  
(Ne Parlez Pas de la Nuit)  
by  
Lady Trueword**

Chapter 1: The Healing

**Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters from Phantom of the Opera.**

Deep in the quiet lair beneath the Paris opera house, the Phantom writhed on his swan bed. Every night he dreamt of Christine singing in her pure soprano voice, beckoning to him. He would reach out his hand to touch her, only to see her image vanish as echoes of her laughter taunted him – a cruel mirage to a man dying of thirst for love.

"God! How much longer must I endure this!" he cried out into the darkness. He wondered why he even bothered to speak to God, for he believed in no god. If there truly were a God, surely He would have put this loathsome carcass out of its misery long ago. In his despair he took the thick, wet rope which he had once used to bind Raoul. Perhaps he should use it on himself now.

_Go on... Kill yourself... Put yourself out of your misery..._ A voice rang inside his head.

"No…" he groaned. "Help me…"

It became a nightly ritual for him to spend long hours feeling the rope in his hands until they were bloody and raw. At last he would fall asleep, exhausted. When morning came he was secretly glad that he would live another day, but all too soon a crushing despair would overwhelm him, and his soul would sink into the bottomless pit again. Even his music could not reach him when he was mired in those depths. Everyone had deserted him.

"My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?" he moaned.

Day and night blended together, and soon he felt that death awaited him. Sometimes, out of the corner of his eye he could have sworn that he caught a glimpse of Christine, but he would not trust the image, for even now his eyes tricked him. Slowly the demons surrounded him, taunting him. He heard their hissing and felt their sharp claws attacking him. They had come for him like vultures that had spotted a meal, and they waited for the moment when they could swoop down and pluck out his eye. He would cry out, and no one would hear him. He felt cursed for eternity. Several times he begged God to let him die. Why could he not die?

One evening, when the tide of his despair was at its lowest, the Phantom pulled the noose around his neck a little tighter. _Dear God, just this once, let me die..._ He tried to kick the chair out from underneath him, but he found himself unable to move a limb. It seemed as if an invisible presence held him still.

"Let me die!" he screamed.

"And die you shall," he heard a soft voice say.

Startled, he glanced about the lair.

"Who's there?" he replied, ashamed of sounding so weak. He let go of the rope and stepped down off the chair.

A light dawned from one end of the lair and gradually filled it with a blinding brightness. The Phantom quickly shielded his eyes.

"If you have come to arrest me, do so quickly," he said. For he assumed that the gendarmes had found him.

When he heard no reply, he slowly took his hand away from his eyes and dared to look into the light. What he saw made him stagger and fall to the ground, hardly able to breathe. Before him stood a man in shining white garments, with blazing hair and a stern face. The Phantom fell to his knees.

"I am dying…" he murmured, certain that he was seeing an angel.

The angel bent down and touched him.

"Peace, Erik. Do not be afraid."

Erik? How did the angel know his name? Erik had been the Phantom for so long, even he had almost forgotten his own name.

"Who are you?"

"I was sent by my father to help you."

"Your father?"

"My father in heaven."

Erik's heart pounded. Could this be an angel? A real angel?

"What do you want with me?" he asked breathlessly.

"Get up," the angel commanded.

Erik could not help but rise to his feet. The angel looked him over.

"Come closer," he beckoned.

Erik did so reluctantly. As he approached the angel, his mask fell off, but strangely, he felt no fear to show his deformity.

"Listen. Do what I say and it will go well with you. You are in need of much healing. Your heart, mind and soul all need healing. Do you want to get well?"

Erik looked up at the angel. Get well? What kind of question was this?

"I guess so. But my face…?"

"Your body also. But you must obey my instructions."

"What instructions?" Erik asked curiously.

"First, you must devote yourself to seeking and following the truth for the rest of your life," the angel replied. "You will learn how," he added, answering the other question that was on Erik's mind.

"If you will teach me… I will learn."

"Good. You must also live as if your past never existed. Can you do this?"

Erik paused. Could he forget all the pain… the anger… the darkness? All the people who had mistreated him?

"I will try," he said at last.

"You must forgive, or you will end up worse off than you were before. Do not speak a word about the past until it is time. If you meet someone you knew once, you must treat them as you would a stranger. They will not recognize you."

"I may not speak to Madame Giry?"

"You may speak to her, but only as a stranger would. You must reacquaint yourself with her, never revealing your past. If she finds out who you are, it cannot be your doing."

A wave of bitterness washed over Erik.

"How can I do this?"

"You must. Will you?"

The angel waited patiently as Erik deliberated his answer. When no answer was forthcoming, he spoke again.

"You will have a new life. A new family. Everything will be provided for you to begin anew. Is my request too difficult?"

"I guess not," Erik replied rather flippantly. He would not have believed the angel, except that the commanding presence compelled him to listen.

"Then you accept my conditions?"

"Yes."

"Come," the angel beckoned.

Erik slowly stepped forward, wondering what would happen next. He was used to inspiring fear and awe from others, not like he was now. He wondered if perhaps he was delirious or dreaming? The angel immediately placed his hands on Erik's face. Erik was surprised but he did not flinch. Soon he felt a light warmth course through his body. His whole being seemed to knit itself back together, with every lost piece restored until he was a whole man.

The angel removed his hands. Erik nearly fell again, but the angel steadied him. Erik cringed when he saw a pair of piercing eyes riveted upon him, but a celestial smile appeared on the angel's face. He pointed across the room to a mirror, formerly shattered, which was now mysteriously whole again.

"Your sins are forgiven," said the angel. "Go and see."

Erik could barely walk. What would the mirror hold for him now? When he finally had the courage to look, all his doubts were replaced with shock. A man with a normal face was staring back at him, wide-eyed.

"What have you done to me?" he cried in disbelief.

"What you have always wanted. Now you must go – your life awaits. Remember what I told you. Do not let anyone know about your past until it is time. Live your life well – it is precious."

"But…" before Erik could say another word, he found himself being escorted out of the lair.

"You tell me that I must not speak of the past. But what about my name? I cannot still be Erik."

"True. Your shall be Rene – Rene Bonhomme."

Rene? The former opera ghost contemplated whether he fancied the name. But his ruminations did not last long. The angel led the man now known as Rene outside, where the ruins of the opera house lay, visible to all. He pointed towards the south.

"There. Travel towards the horizon until you find your family. Do not look back."

"My… family? But how will I recognize them?"

"They will recognize you. Remember, you are never alone. God in heaven above cares for you."

Erik glanced back at the opera house. He thought it was madness to follow such instructions, but before he could ask another question, the angel vanished and he could find no trace of the mysterious being who had visited him. Ironic, he thought, that he, a master magician, was outdone by this… this angel. He had not been permitted to gather his belongings. What of his music? His clothes? His artwork? What about what was left of the 20,000 francs that he had? The thought crossed his mind that it might not be wise to go back for them, even though his heart longed for them. At last he faced forward and was proved right in his decision, for as soon as he had taken but a few steps, the rest of the opera house collapsed, sealing shut the entrances to his former home.

Make no mention of the past, the angel had said. That was fine with Erik. He was a new man with a new name, no longer an outcast. He now began his journey, eager to experience a world where he would not be rejected anymore because his face. He smiled and walked towards the south, having no knowledge or fear of what would await him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Don't Speak of the Night**

**(Ne Parlez Pas de la Nuit)**

**by**

**Lady Trueword**

Chapter 2: Old Friends and Acquaintances

Erik wandered south through the streets of Paris, hoping to meet his new family soon. He was unaccustomed to being under the sun for so long, and he found the noise around him to be intolerable. Carriage wheels and horses' hooves on the stone pavement, merchants yelling as they sold their wares, babies crying for their mothers – he much preferred an orchestra to this cacophony.

He longed for something to eat but his pockets contained nothing except for Christine's ring. It was the only valuable that he had kept with him. How he wished he could climb up to the roof of the opera house again! He had enjoyed quiet meals there in the cool breeze. From his perch he used to look down upon the Parisians, flouncing about in their finery. They looked like bejeweled insects to him. Erik relished the thought of crushing them. And why not? They had cast him out into the night without pity.

But now their greetings sounded alien to his ears. Whenever a gentleman tipped his hat, Erik forced himself to return the courtesy. The darker nature within him detested such civilities, but the small flame that the angel had lit was growing. All his secret dreams – for beauty, for light and for life – desires he had denied for so long – were becoming difficult to stifle. Oh Christine… He quickened his pace, trying to shut her image out of his mind. Where were the Bonhommes? It had not occurred to him that they might not live in Paris.

Two fashionable young ladies, one plump and the other skinny, giggled when he walked by them.

"Stop staring, Odile!" whispered the slender one.

"Ooh la la, Lisette, il est très beau…" Odile replied as she ogled the tall, dark-haired stranger.

Erik felt the blood rush to his face. Him, a handsome man? The idea was almost incomprehensible! By instinct his palm rose to his right cheek. Odile and Lisette only giggled harder.

"Stop it, Odile! Look, you are embarrassing him!" cried Lisette as she hurried her friend across the street. Odile took one last longing look before she disappeared into the crowd.

When Erik realized he had nothing to hide, he relaxed his arm and breathed a sigh of relief.

"Foolish girls," he muttered.

"Non, non!" the deep voice of a man startled him.

"But Andre, I tell you that it is the best offer we have!" cried another.

Erik froze. Monsieur Richard Firmin and Monsieur Giles Andre, the owners of the Opera Populaire, had stepped out of the Banque de l'Indochine. Erik's trepidation increased when Firmin spotted him and raised his ivory and gold-tipped cane.

"Why, Andre, I am certain that even _this_ gentleman would agree with me that we should sell!"

Andre spat.

"Bah! Why should I sell my business to the son of an English aristocrat who never did an honest day's work in his life!"

Erik's green eyes darted about, desperate to find a way of escape. But Firmin stepped forward and tipped his hat.

"May I ask your name, good monsieur?"

"Re… Rene Bonhomme," Erik stammered his new name. He wondered if Firmin could hear his heart beating.

"Monsieur Bonhomme, I shall give you fifty francs if you will answer one question.

"Fifty francs! Are you crazy?" cried Andre.

Firmin continued, unabashed.

"Would you consider it prudent to sell a junk…"

"Scrap metal!"

"Sorry, Andre," replied Firmin. "A good… scrap metal business to a naïve young Englishman who would pay us a small fortune for it?"

Erik took a deep breath, relieved that Firmin did not recognize him.

"Perhaps. May I ask why you are selling it?"

"For the last time, we are _not _selling!" insisted Andre, who tried to pull his partner away. Firmin extricated his arm and stared at Erik, his hollow eyes having none of the mirth nor gleam of greed that they once had.

"We are nearly bankrupt, monsieur," said the businessman in a low voice.

Erik felt his lip twitch. A just misfortune, he thought. If you had obeyed my orders, none of us would be standing here, penniless.

"If only we had never bought that cursed opera house," lamented Andre.

Firmin straightened his shoulders.

"Brighten up, old chap. Things will get better."

Andre shook his head.

"I am too old, my friend. I do not have the strength to start again."

"Were you speaking about the Opera Populaire? I thought the vicomte was your patron," said Erik with a slight sneer.

"The vicomte has disappeared with our star soprano. Nobody knows where they are."

Any glee in Erik's heart quickly turned sour. The pit in his stomach grew as he watched the old man's head droop.

"Come, let us go, Andre."

Erik suddenly wished that he still possessed the 20,000 francs.

"Monsieurs," he called to them.

Firmin turned back wearily and took some coins out of his coat pocket.

"Ah, yes. Your francs, monsieur."

"No, that was not what I meant... I do not need your money," protested Erik.

Firmin put the money in Erik's hand.

"I keep my promises," he replied proudly.

Erik glanced at his palm. Firmin had probably given him the last of his cash, old fool. The two shriveled old men got into their carriage. Erik ran to them.

"Perhaps the Phantom's hidden money could help you!"

Firmin and Andre turned to him one last time and laughed.

"Hidden money? Don't believe everything you read, young man. The Phantom never had any money," said Andre scornfully.

"That is not true, monsieur! Dig and look on the east side of my, er – the… the lair…!"

Andre shook his head and sighed.

"I believe you have bigger things to be concerned with," replied Firmin. "Good day."

Firmin shut the carriage door.

"Please, gentlemen! You have to believe me!" cried Erik as the carriage sped away.

He suddenly realized that he stood alone in the middle of the street, shouting like a lunatic. When the carriage disappeared from view he reluctantly trudged on, unaware of the wide berth that the Parisians gave him. He did not know what caused his change of heart. Remorse was still a foreign concept to him.

What did you do to me, angel? He wondered. He did not like caring about people who had never cared about him. But nevertheless a revelation came, uninvited.

_You were the cause of their ruin._

A heavy stone came to rest on his fledgling conscience. Conscience... Erik started to run as if he could escape from it. Why did you save me, God?

_I am merciful._

"You are stupid!" he yelled angrily before he collided with a woman. She screamed as he sent her boxes crashing to the ground.

"My apologies, madame. I did not see you…"

He looked up and gasped. It was none other than Madame Giry who stood before him, flabbergasted. Meg Giry rushed out of a dress shop to her mother's side.

"What is it, maman? Are you all right?"

Erik gathered Madame Giry's things and carefully gave them back to her. Their hands touched for a brief moment.

"Good day to you, madame," he said. He noticed her scrutiny and quickly turned away.

She looked at Erik strangely. That voice! She could recognize it anywhere. But the stranger in front of her did not resemble the Phantom at all, except for something that was vaguely familiar about his eyes...

"Thank you, monsieur," she said. She wished she could say more.

He stopped for a moment before continuing down the road. He did not see Meg Giry's gaping stare or her mother's look of longing. What could he possibly say to them now? He would forever be indebted to her. The angel was right. It was best to leave the past behind. But what if he disobeyed just this once? Would he be punished?

Erik turned around. The Girys were gone, and to his surprise, so was a piece of his heart.


	3. Chapter 3

**Don't Speak of the Night  
(Ne Parlez Pas de la Nuit)  
by  
Lady Trueword**

Chapter 3: Truth or Consequences

Erik tossed and turned, unable to sleep. The finest silk sheets and down pillows gave him no relief, neither did the wine he drank before going to bed make him forget. He arose and paced the room, trying hard not to recall Madame Giry's face.

He had spent nearly all of the money Firmin gave him, heedless of how he would survive the next day. He stopped and studied himself in the Trumeau mirror, trying to recognize the stranger before him. The face was not a bad one. The deep-set eyes were a brilliant gray-green. The nose was straight and the mouth had a good curve. The right side of the face was smooth and normal like the left, and a thin beard had appeared around the jaw. What would Christine have thought of him now? If he had looked like this then… would her choice had been more difficult? Her soft lips still haunted him. The lavender scent of her hair… her tiny waist enclosed in the silken corset of his wedding dress… Her earnest, pleading eyes… pleading for the vicomte…

"Why did I let her go?" he asked.

_It's in your soul that the true distortion lies…_

Her words still stung.

He put on his coat and traversed through the empty hallways to the hotel lounge, hoping to find solace in another drink. A well-dressed gentleman with a cigar sat at the bar, engrossed in conversation with the bartender.

"You are a crazy dreamer, Bernard," said the gentleman good-naturedly as he pushed a strand of blonde hair from his brow.

Bernard shrugged his shoulders.

"It is no crazier than your dream to write a novel, Monsieur Luc." He paused and scrutinized Erik.

"What would you like, monsieur? We are about to close."

"Brandy, please."

Bernard set the glass on the counter and poured the drink. Erik paid and took a sip. Soon he felt more settled and looked around. On the north side of the room stood a baby grand piano. Ah, music!

"May I play a little on your piano?" he asked Bernard.

Bernard glanced at his other customer.

"Would it bother you, Monsieur Luc?"

The gentleman grunted and gave Erik a wave of his hand. Erik chafed inwardly, but he nodded as graciously as he could before sitting down at the instrument. He positioned his nimble fingers over the keys and began to play a refrain from a love song.

_Say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime… _

_Lead me, save me from my solitude…_

"Boy! I told you not to come in here and bother the gentlemen!" Bernard bellowed.

His concentration broken, Erik turned around angrily, ready to confront the source of the interruption. Instead, a tall boy with downcast eyes stood before him.

"P… P…Please, monsieur, I… I… n… need to g… get some br… br… brandy for my sister. Sh… She's s… s… s… sick…"

Bernard pulled the boy away from the piano.

"Francesco! What did I just tell you? Go back to your room!" he commanded.

"Mon… Monsieur Bernard… Sh… sh… she has a fe… fever…"

"I said go! I will bring it to you later!"

"Th… th… thank you, mon… mon… monsieur! M… ma… maman thanks you!" cried the boy before he scurried away.

Bernard shook his head.

"I apologize, monsieur," he said with a sigh. "That Piangi boy will be my ruin!"

"Excuse me, Bernard," said Monsieur Luc, who walked over to the piano. "Did you say, Piangi? The boy is not related to the late Ubaldo Piangi, is he?"

The mention of the name caught Erik's attention. He had not thought of Piangi since that terrible night when Christine exposed him to the world. The old man had outlived his usefulness, anyway…

"Indeed, he is, sir." replied Bernard.

"Ah, what a tragedy."

"They say he was having an affair with the diva Carlotta," said Bernard as Erik smirked. "Not that I ever cared much for the opera. But he left behind a widow and five children. Apparently the man indulged in luxuries but left very little savings for his family. Why, just last month Madame Piangi had to beg the mayor for assistance."

"What a travesty," replied Monsieur Luc. "And how did he respond?"

"He promised to help her after they had stood in front of his maison for five days."

"You know how reliable the city government is. She will not see a franc."

"Au contraire, Monsieur Luc. It was the mayor who brought Madame Piangi and her children here. But they barely have enough to cover their expenses."

Erik's head began to ache.

"Bah! Enough sad news for one day, don't you think?" said Monsieur Luc as he flicked off the ashes of his cigar. "Anyway, I am more interested in what happened to the young soprano who was kidnapped by that monster!"

Erik's eyes burned as he gritted his teeth. All his life people had called him names.

"She's probably dead now, another victim of that murderer's cruel hand," replied Bernard.

"You do not think that the vicomte rescued her?"

"No one has seen the vicomte since that night."

Monsieur Luc chuckled.

"A beautiful girl, she was. No wonder the monster wanted her. I suppose I would have kidnapped her and made her my mistress if I…"

A loud clatter of discordant piano notes exploded through the room. The startled men looked at Erik, who stared back with murderous intent.

"Do not speak of Mademoiselle Daae that way!" he hissed.

"Mon Dieu! Are you all right, monsieur? I do apologize if our conversation disturbed you!" exclaimed the bartender.

Erik surveyed the room for anything he could use to strangle Monsieur Luc.

"I see that I have upset you, my friend. I do apologize if I disturbed your lovely performance. Please carry on," said the gentleman amiably before he went back to the bar.

Ignorant fools, Erik thought. He felt the lust for blood rise within him. But he remembered the angel who had come to him during his blackest moments of despair.

_Is my request too difficult?_

He quietly strangled his desire to murder and played again, hoping to drown out Bernard and Monsieur Luc as they conversed about the lurid gossip of the day. When he finished the song he was surprised to hear applause from his tiny audience.

"Excuse me," said Erik as he rose from the piano. He thought it would be best to leave before his temper flared again.

"Monsieur!" yelled Bernard.

Erik barely managed to turn around. What would they do to him if they knew? The bartender held out his hand.

"I apologize once again, Monsieur. The brandy is gratis."

Erik slowly took the money and departed with as much calm as he could muster. He went outside and felt the night air engulf him, but he was not afraid. Darkness had once been his friend, his only ally. He could still hear it whispering, beckoning to him.

_Come to me, Erik_... _Let us rebuild our world again…_

His heart began to pound. All his dreams of heaven were swirling into the pit again.

"No!" he cried. "I no longer belong to you! The angel healed me!"

A sharp breeze chilled him to the bone. He could feel his old demons haunting him again, seducing him with their intoxicating power.

_You do not belong to their world... They hate you, remember? You belong with us.._.

Erik covered his ears and closed his eyes in a feeble attempt to shut them out.

"No! Someone help!" he cried.

He ran blindly into an alley until he felt someone touch his arm. He grabbed it, ready to fight, and saw Francesco.

"Mon… Monsieur, a… a….are y… y…y … you all…all r…r…right?"

Erik held on to the boy's thin frame until he had regained his breath.

"Merci," he replied. He noticed Francesco's tattered trousers. The boy had been gathering rubbish. Erik took the few francs he had out of his pocket.

"Here, give this to your maman. Tell her…" he paused for a moment, trying to think of the right words. "Tell her that I am… I am very sorry…"

A big smile lit up Francesco's face as he received the money.

"Oh, th... th… thank you, m… m… mon… monsieur!"

He flung his arms around Erik's waist. Stunned by the affectionate gesture, Erik's body went limp and his arms hung at his sides, useless to respond. He was thankful when Francesco released him and ran back to the hotel. Erik followed and watched the boy vanish into a dark hallway before he returned to his own room, grateful to be in the light.

He opened the door and stumbled as he stepped inside. Looking down, he saw a thin leather portfolio on the floor. His curiosity piqued, he opened it and examined its contents. Inside was a sheaf of paper attached to a set of train tickets. An elegant scrawl on the note read, "Compliments of Monsieur Luc Bassos." The tickets allowed travel on any train operated by the PLM Railway Company.

Erik was at once astonished and bewildered. He had wanted to kill the man who had now given him this gift. Anger and gratitude overwhelmed him. He had not traveled since his time with the Gypsies, and that was not of his own choice. He had never chosen his own destination.

"Rene Bonhomme," he repeated to himself. "You are no longer the Phantom."

He prayed that Christine was not tormented like him. He prayed for Madame Piangi and Francesco, for Firmin and Andre's money and Madame Giry's employment. He prayed to meet his new family and for guidance on his travel plans. Then he thanked the angel for helping him until at last he fell asleep, exhausted.


	4. Chapter 4

**Don't Speak of the Night  
(Ne Parlez Pas de la Nuit)  
by  
Lady Trueword**

Chapter 4: The Vicomte's Choice

The letter from the Vicomtesse Thérèse de Chagny arrived on a cold day in Sweden. Christine kept it sealed in its envelope and placed it on Raoul's writing desk. Her mother-in-law never addressed her any of her correspondence. This letter would not be different from the rest.

Christine had quickly learned that the vicomtesse would never accept her, despite Raoul being her favorite son. She winced as she remembered Thérèse's sharp words during their first meeting, just days after she and Raoul had escaped from the Phantom's lair.

"You were a singer at the opera, were you not?" asked the vicomtesse after a sip of tea. She looked faultless in her emerald green dress and her elegantly coiffed gray hair.

"Mother, remember little Lotte?" Raoul implored.

"I remember Little Lotte," said Thérèse with a snort. "Little Lotte was the daughter of a poor violinist. Perhaps she would make a good mistress for you, Raoul. But she certainly would _not_ be fit to be a vicomte's wife."

She bore her green eyes into Christine and examined her from head to toe.

"How did you do it?" she asked.

"Mother!"

"You must be very cunning to think that you can seduce my Raoul."

"I… I don't understand…" replied Christine, wide-eyed.

"Mother," growled the vicomte. "I love her."

"Love? And what of your duties, Raoul? Have you forgotten your place in society?"

"You do not know what she has been through. I nearly lost her to that monster – I will not lose her again!"

"And have you no idea what losses I would suffer if you married this… this tramp?"

"No, I do not, Mother," replied Raoul coldly. "perhaps, a few invitations to some ridiculous parties?"

"You shame the name of de Chagny! If only your father could see you now!" she cried.

Raoul arose and took Christine's hand.

"If that is the case, then I will gladly resign my title! Philippe can have it!"

The vicomtesse stared at her son, her eyes bulging red.

"You… you cannot… Your brother is still in Indochina on business…"

"Raoul, please don't make any rash decisions," Christine tried to calm him down, but she knew that his mind was already made up.

Raoul gave his mother a stiff bow.

"Do as you wish, Mother," he said.

He led his fiancée to the door.

"Where are you going?" cried Thérèse.

"Christine and I will marry at once," he announced, his eyes as unyielding as flint.

Christine barely had time to collect her thoughts. Was she really going to marry Raoul today? What about her angel?

"Raoul Louis Henri de Chagny! Don't you defy your mother! Come back here at once!" yelled the vicomtesse.

Raoul paused as if to consider whether to heed her command. Christine thought she detected a bit of weariness in the old lady's voice. She felt his hand tighten around hers.

"Come, my bride," he said with a smile. "Let us go."

They left with the vicomtesse's shrill voice behind them like the wind, until at last it faded away. Their wedding was swift and simple, with only Madame Giry and Meg in attendance. It did not matter to the bride or groom that they were dressed in their traveling clothes. Christine looked radiant to all. When the priest pronounced his final blessing over them, Raoul rejoiced. She was his at last! But she could not help but think of her last glimpse of her angel, staring at her with tears in his eyes.

"You alone can make my song take flight…" strains of his song echoed in her head. He would always be a part of her…

A knock at the door jolted her out of her thoughts.

"Telegram for you, madame," said the young man who greeted her cheerily. Madame Giry had sent her a message! In her excitement she did not remember how much she paid the boy, or his friendly goodbye. She tore open the envelope, hoping for news of her angel's whereabouts.

_Opera house collapsed. Stop. Whereabouts of our friend unknown. Stop._

Tears filled her eyes. Did her angel escape before the building collapsed? Or was he entombed underneath, never to be seen again? She shuddered at the thought of him being dead. Even now, she could not bear to think that his music might be lost forever. She did not notice her husband entering the house.

"Christine, what is the matter?"

She looked up into Raoul's concerned face.

"It's the opera house… It collapsed…" she gave him the telegram.

Raoul showed little emotion as he perused it.

"I am sorry, darling," he said stiffly.

Christine knew he would be glad if the Phantom was dead and buried once and for all. Then he could never haunt them again. But she could not deny the feelings she still cherished for her former mentor. Raoul gently took her in his arms.

"Let him go, Christine," he said.

He was right. A chapter in her life had closed, and she must move on. She gave Raoul her best smile.

"I will," she replied.

Pleased, Raoul went to his desk and picked up the letter. Christine watched him anxiously.

"It arrived this morning," she told him.

He opened the envelope and carefully lifted out the sheaf of parchment. His brow furrowed as he read its words.

"What is it?" she asked. She knew that the letter did not bode well.

"My brother Philippe has returned from Indochina. I am relieved of my title as Vicomte de Chagny."

"Oh, Raoul! Whatever shall you do?"

"We shall do whatever we like, my dear," he spoke like a man unafraid. "We shall go where we want, do what we want… We are free!"

He took her hands and held them.

"Dearest Christine, would you mind being the wife of a commoner?"

"I never cared about your rank, Raoul," she said sweetly. He had given up his title for her. How could she betray him now?

He swiftly crushed his lips against hers. She welcomed it, but somehow found herself half wishing that it was her angel kissing her instead.

"I've been thinking… would you like to move back to France? Not Paris, but perhaps the south coast of Provence?" he asked. "I have some investments there. They are solely in my name."

"Oh, yes!" she said as she threw her arms around his neck. It had been so long since she had lived by the sea.

"We will start a new life," he said. He knew no phantom could spoil it now. But he sensed Christine's anxiety and spoke comforting words to her.

"It will be our permanent home. We will not move again," he declared.

She nodded. Safe in her husband's arms, nothing could go wrong. A sudden wave of relief swept over her. Her angel of music was safe, she was now sure of it. Who knows but that heaven might have given him a second chance to live?


	5. Chapter 5

**Don't Speak of the Night  
(Ne Parlez Pas de la Nuit)  
by  
Lady Trueword**

Chapter 5: Familiar Strangers

Erik strode past the Old Port of Marseilles, amazed at the sight of the ships before him. He had not been near the coast in years, and now as he smelled the brine and felt the sun's warmth and the accompanying gentle ocean breeze, he wondered how he ever managed to live without them.

With high hopes he had boarded the southbound train going towards the Cote d'Azur, confident that he would at last meet someone who would recognize him. His thoughts gradually transformed from longings for Christine to yearnings for his family. What did his mother and father look like? Did he have any brothers or sisters? Any grandparents or relatives? Were they kind? Beautiful? Artistic? Would they like his music?

"Do they exist at all?" he wondered. How much farther would he have to go to meet them? Africa, perhaps?

The journey itself had been tolerable. Erik never failed to find hospitality wherever he set foot. All along the railroad, villagers opened their hearts to him whenever he was in need. He studied their habits and in turn entertained them with music. He had brought nothing with him at the beginning of his trip, yet by the time he reached Provence he possessed a bag full of clothing and necessities. Slowly his trust in mankind increased. He felt an indescribable vibrancy within, even when loneliness threatened to overwhelm him.

"Where are they, angel?" he whispered.

_Patience, my love. You are almost there._

He marveled at the sights along the bustling Canebiére Avenue and purposely avoided the Opera quarter. The Panier Quarter beckoned and he ambled through its crooked streets, where colorfully dressed residents of every nationality bantered in their native languages. Erik strained to understand the smattering of Greek, Armenian, Italian and Arabic that he heard. He had understood them once, as a child. The aroma of exotic foods filled his nostrils and his stomach growled. Penniless once again, he wondered where to take shelter.

"Monsieur, are you lost?" asked a smiling Moorish woman with glistening ivory teeth.

"Do you… have a church nearby, madame?" asked Erik. Church? Was he crazy? He had not set foot in a church in years.

The woman pointed north.

"Go up this street until you reach the Old Charity," she said. "Perhaps they can help you there."

"Merci beaucoup, madame," Erik replied with a bow.

He followed the winding road until he came upon a large rectangular building. An egg-shaped dome arose from the center of the structure.

"Ah, Italian Baroque," muttered Erik as he approached the entrance. At least he still knew his architecture.

To his dismay, swarms of beggarly children came out and quickly surrounded him.

"Monsieur, a franc, please," pleaded one.

"No, monsieur, help me!" cried another.

A stout nurse grabbed Erik's arm and pulled him into the courtyard.

"There you are, doctor. We have been expecting you. How long will it take for you to fix the poor child's leg?"

"You are mistaken, madame. I am not a doctor."

Without further ado, she brushed Erik aside and marched back to the entrance, leaving him to wander the inner courtyard with a few elderly patients. What he saw fascinated him. The four wings of the rectangular three-story building surrounded the courtyard. At the center of the courtyard stood the chapel with its egg-shaped dome and its façade depicting the goddess Charity taking in children.

Erik walked through the tall doors and was unprepared for the silent beauty within its marble halls. Having nothing else to do, he sat down in a pew. Soon, memories of the past intruded his thoughts. Images of him strangling Piangi, bringing down the chandelier and burning down the opera house flooded his mind and made him want to scream. He dared to lift his eyes to the cross that hung on the wall.

"Father, forgive me, for I have sinned," he whispered as he wept. Was it divine punishment that doomed him to live a life of solitude, with no one to care for him?

"Rene? Is that you?" asked a gentle voice.

He spun around and saw a white-haired madame with sky-blue eyes beaming at him. Her thin frame looked as if it would snap in two.

"It _is_ you!" she exclaimed as she reached out to him.

"Madame, I--"

She cupped his face in her hands, delighted to touch every contour.

"My Rene… Look at you! All these months away, fighting… Why didn't you come home first? Ah, you wanted to surprise your grandmaman, did you? Come!"

She took his hand, intending to take him with her. He balked and wanted to tell her she was crazy, that she had made a mistake, but instead he arose and followed her helplessly like a little child. Slowly they threaded their way through the Panier Quarter until they stood before a cottage not far from the water. Grandmaman opened the front door.

"Go in!" she ordered.

Erik took one look and felt like running away. But just then a beautiful young girl ran to the door with her hand tucked behind her back. Her long onyx hair and tan skin revealed her North African origins.

"Grandmaman!"

"Adèle!"

Adèle took a bouquet of jonquils and presented them to Grandmaman.

"Look what I got for you today, it's fresh from the flower market!"

Grandmaman took the flowers graciously.

"They are beautiful, ma cherie. But we must be polite. See the man standing beside me?"

Adèle nodded.

"Do you know who he is?"

The girl shook her head.

"It's your brother Rene."

Adèle's eyes lit up.

"My brother? The hero who fought the Germans?"

Erik found his waist quickly encircled by a pair of slender arms. Once again, he felt helpless to respond.

"We mustn't crowd him, dear. He's probably famished. Come, Rene, let's have supper."

Erik took a deep breath and stepped over the threshold into the parlor. His eyes slowly adjusted until he saw the dining room. Two bearded men sat at the table, staring at him. A woman came out of the kitchen and set a pot of soup on the table. Erik noticed her striking features, which were not obscured by her fifty years of age.

"Your soup, hungry monsieurs."

When they did not respond, she turned to see what they were staring at. All the color drained from her face.

"Aren't you going to embrace your son, Sylvie?" asked Grandmaman.

Sylvie trembled as she faced the stranger before her.

"Rene…" she said at last.

Erik caught his breath. Her delicate voice sounded nothing his real mother's bark. _Oh, maman, all I ever wanted was a kiss…_

She stepped forward and barely touched his coat as she examined it.

"It's been a long time..." she said. She glanced at the table.

"Hasn't it, Honoré?"

One of the men laid down his fork. He had the same color eyes as Grandmaman.

"We heard so many terrible things about the war…"

Erik did not know what would be an appropriate reply.

"It's been too long," he said at last.

"Oui, so long that we barely recognize you," said the other man at the table. He had a gaunt face and dressed in coarse clothing.

Erik panicked until he heard the roar of laughter that followed.

"I agree," Grandmaman chimed in. "We should introduce ourselves, in case we have forgotten who we are. I am your grandmaman Marie."

She wasted no time pointing out each family member to Erik.

"There's your papa and maman, your sister Adèle and your Uncle Alain."

Erik noticed the tender glances Alain gave the little girl. Marie took a glass of wine and raised it for a toast.

"To my grandson, Rene!"

"To Rene!" they said in unison.

Alain drew up a chair between him and Honoré.

"Take a seat, Rene. I would be interested to hear about your experiences."

"I should check on the vegetables," said Sylvie as she hurried back to the kitchen.

Erik sat down nervously between the men.

"There's… not much to tell. War is an ugly thing."

"I agree," said Marie as she and Adèle took their places at the table. "Sylvie! Stop working and come eat with us!" she yelled towards the kitchen.

"In a minute!"

Honoré put down his glass and paused before he spoke.

"Rene has always been… a sensitive soul. It is to be expected, since his maman is an artiste and his papa a sailor."

"We are more artistes than anything," replied Alain. "You used to paint so well, Rene. I trust that you have kept up with it?"

Erik studied Alain, who looked like a common man. What would he know about art?

"I try," Erik replied. All that time spent painting in the lair would not go to waste.

He felt someone tug at his sleeve. A pair of innocent eyes set in a rosy round face with dimples stared up at him. Adèle had a sweetness about her that reminded him of young Christine…

"You'll teach me to paint and draw, won't you, Rene? Maman said you were the best painter in your class."

"I will do my best," he said. His answer delighted her.

"Très bien! We will start right away! I want to be Marseille's best painter, just like maman!" she said as Sylvie came back from the kitchen.

"Now Adèle, we do not demand things of our guests."

"He's not a guest, maman, he is my brother. I'm going to go fetch my watercolors," said Adèle as she pranced off to her room.

Sylvie bit her lip nervously as the rest of the family watched. Erik's heart sank. But Honoré gave him a pat on the shoulder.

"It's all right. Rene has been gone so long that he is like our honored guest now. Perhaps he could help you with the gallery tomorrow, my dear?"

"If he wishes to."

"I would be glad to assist, mad--" Erik caught himself.

"Would you come to the kitchen with me? I can't reach the anchoïade."

Honoré raised an eyebrow, but Erik followed Sylvie into the kitchen, which was large and well stocked. She opened the tall pantry and pointed at a jar of anchovy garlic sauce perched on top of the uppermost shelf. Erik brought it safely down to her.

"Merci… Rene. Moules à la marinière was always your favorite dish," she said as she stirred the sauce into a small pot on the stove.

"Yes, it's most delicious," he replied. He did not know why he felt so nervous.

She gave him a look that penetrated to his core.

"My Rene detested mussels."

Erik could only gape at her as a pain stabbed his heart.

"What is your name, monsieur?"

"I'm… I'm very sorry, madame," sputtered Erik. "The angel told me--" Frustration overwhelmed him. Why should he even bother explaining? She would never believe him.

"Forget it," he said as he turned to leave.

"Wait! What did the angel say to you?"

"He… He gave me a new name…"

Sylvie dropped her spoon and began to tremble.

"May I ask what it was?"

"Rene… Bonhomme…"

"Are you all right?" Erik asked as he helped her to a chair. It was several seconds before she could speak again.

"A few nights ago, I had a dream. An angel came to me and told me God was going to give me my son back… You see, he was killed in the German War… They never found his body. I thought it was a very strange dream, and I told no one at the time…"

She looked over every inch of him, as if trying to find a clue.

"Do I… resemble him?" asked Erik.

"Yes. I can see why Grandmaman thought you were…"

Tears filled her eyes.

"Rene… He was the kindest, bravest boy. Full of passion, a wonderful artist…"

And I am unworthy to take his place, thought Erik. He was surprised to find Sylvie pounding against his chest, sobbing.

"Oh, my poor boy…"

Slowly, Erik put his arms around her.

"Don't cry… madame…"

Neither of them noticed a very pleased Grandmaman standing at the kitchen entrance, watching them embrace. Sylvie dried her tears and surprised Erik with a light kiss on the forehead. His heart nearly leapt out of his chest.

"You may call me maman," she said. "Come, we should finish our supper."

Erik felt somewhat relieved. At least he would have something to eat tonight. He had never tasted anything as good as Sylvie's seafood soup. By the time supper was over his stomach was full and he felt strangely warm and happy. After Adèle showed him her paints and the last words of conversation died away, Grandmaman stood and bid them all good night with kisses.

"Go to bed early, young man," she said after she gave him a peck on the cheek. Erik could not help but turn up his lips a little.

"I will," he replied, even as he wished he could stay a little longer.

At last everyone left except for Sylvie and Honoré. Erik got up and wondered how to thank them for the meal.

"I guess I should go..."

"Sit down," said Honoré. "Sylvie tells me you two have already talked?"

"Yes," replied Erik as he sat back down.

"Do you have any family here?"

"I have none."

"Where will you stay?"

"I… I don't know."

"And your employment?"

Erik shook his head.

"I just arrived here today."

The sailor sat back and stroked his moustache.

"My poor mother's heart would break if you were to leave. She is old and misses her grandson terribly."

Erik nodded.

"She is very kind…"

"Aye, she is."

Erik suddenly felt exhausted. He silently pleaded for one night's stay in Sylvie's warm house. Please, God, just one night…

"You'll stay with us," said Honoré. "Starting tomorrow you will help my wife in her gallery, and on days when she doesn't need you, you will help Alain and I with our shipping business. We will pay you a fair wage. All I ask is that you keep my mother happy. Does this arrangement suit you?"

"Yes, thank you," said Erik, who tried not to show his excitement.

"Good. You can stay in your room... And Rene?"

Stunned, Erik turned his head towards Honoré.

"If you hurt your grandmaman, or any other member of my family, I will kill you, understand?"

"Yes, sir."

Sylvie and Honoré exchanged grins.

"Remember, son," said Sylvie as she eased herself up from the table. "When you were born, it took me three months to fall in love with you. Now that you have been away for so long, it will take me another three months to become reacquainted with you."

It took Erik a moment to comprehend that what she said was meant to be humorous.

"Let's show him his room," said his new papa.

Erik said a silent prayer of thanks. Here he was with a group of people who accepted him, who called him family. The music of the night was over – and Rene Bonhomme would make sure that it stayed that way.


	6. Chapter 6

**Don't Speak of the Night  
(Ne Parlez Pas de la Nuit)  
by  
Lady Trueword**

Chapter 6: New Beginnings

_Thank you to all of my readers! It's been fun and hard work writing this story. If you would like to see a photo manip I made of Erik/Rene, send me a message because I cannot post it on this site.__  
_

Erik slowly grew accustomed to the old seaport's bustling rhythm. Sailors and fishermen went to work in a manner which seemed almost musical to him. He spent his days working hard, selling paintings at the Gallerie de Soissons and assisting Honoré and Alain with their shipping business. Under Sylvie's tutelage and everyone's encouragement, he took up painting again and greatly improved his skill. During his spare time, no one minded when he played the old piano in the study for hours, even though they did their best to coax him out of his solitude.

"Rene, you will never meet any ladies if you stay in that room all the time," Grandmaman teased.

When Erik reluctantly stepped out of his sanctuary, she was waiting.

"You need a wife. A good woman with a smart head on her shoulders," said Grandmaman with a gleam in her eye. "And I think I may have a few good candidates."

"Maman, Rene just came home," Sylvie reminded her.

"It's about time you had children, my grandson. You won't be sad with them around."

Erik's cheeks turned crimson. But despite such awkward moments, he was starting to like his new family. They all seemed to know that he had been though much suffering, which Grandmaman attributed to the Franco-Prussian War. But they respected him enough to allow him time to assimilate back into normal life. It was not long before he felt comfortable playing his music in front of them, which delighted them all. Life for the former outcast was, for the first time, beautiful.

Yet many were the days when sorrow would well up deep within him. Erik often thought about Christine as he held her ring. Where was she now? Was she happy? Did she sing lullabies in her angelic voice to Raoul's baby? Erik seldom felt comfortable being called a handsome man, but his new beard removed nearly all traces of resemblance to his old appearance. He was becoming a good man, a respectable man. He attended church every week and even played the organ once. He learned new skills, such as sailing and gardening, and sought to improve himself in every way. Could Christine love him now?

He knew he was not without faults or vices. But these he hoped were minor compared to his faults before. However, he still had a penchant for expensive wine and extravagant clothing. One day, after serving several wealthy patrons at the gallery, he realized his clothes were rather plain, so he went to see Honoré. The older man sat at his desk, hunched over his ledgers, until he saw Erik.

"Rene! Bonjour, come in!" he said warmly. "How was business at the gallery today?"

Erik took a seat across from Honoré.

"Business was good."

Honoré stared at him curiously. "What brings you all the way over here? Please tell Maman that Alain and I will be late tonight."

Erik took a gulp of air and cleared his throat.

"I want to borrow... five hundred francs out of my salary."

The request surprised the old sailor. "I presume you have good reason to borrow such a large sum?"

"I… I need to purchase some new clothes."

"Sacré bleu! For five hundred francs?"

"I thought I would also secure some good wine," replied Erik, who did his utmost to hide his annoyance.

"Are you trying to impress a lady?"

"No. I like fine things, that is all."

Honoré sat back and grinned.

"Ah, fine things… Love of fine things would make you a pauper, son."

"I will pay you back as quickly as I can."

"And be in debt just for some fancy clothes? It is better not to borrow for such frivolous things. But I understand. I was like you once, young and foolish."

"But…" Erik could think of no other reply, much to his chagrin.

Honoré smiled. "Why don't you ask maman? She is a good seamstress and can make anything you want."

Erik went home with anger and embarrassment burning in his heart. He should have known better than to ask for money. Honoré did not seem to understand his need. His need! Well, he would work hard and cleverly enough to afford what he wanted on his own. Perhaps the Marseille Opera House could use his help…

A bark shattered his concentration. Erik scowled. Monsieur Simon who lived next door had let his mutt loose again. The beast bounded towards Erik, eager to attack.

"No!" Erik yelled as he pointed at the animal.

It stopped and stared back, emitting a low growl from its cavernous jaws.

"Dagobert! There you are, Dagobert!"

Monsieur Simon, a heavyset man with a shiny bald head, came out and grabbed his dog by the collar.

"Stop bothering the neighbors, you hear?"

He gave Erik a pasty smile.

"Sorry about that, Monsieur Rene. Please give your mother my regards."

Erik thought of strangling Dagobert as he entered the house. He noiselessly took off his shoes and relished the feeling of the cool floor against his bare feet.

"You're quiet again," he heard Sylvie say behind him. A mischievous grin crossed his face. Without warning he spun around and swept her off the floor. She screamed in surprise.

"Put me down at once!"

"Yes, maman," he complied.

She gazed at him as if she had something important on her mind.

"Papa and I have been thinking, before summer is over we would like to take a retreat in the country."

"The country?" replied Erik incredulously. "But there is no place more beautiful than Marseille."

She smiled with a twinkle in her eye.

"You will have to visit Aix-en-Provence. It rivals Marseille in beauty, I think. Besides, you would enjoy meeting Paul. The Cézannes have always been friendly with us."

"That would be splendid," he replied, despite his nervousness. He had never gone on a retreat of any kind before.

Adèle came out and tugged at her brother's sleeve.

"Rene, teach me the piano!"

He smiled and let her lead him to the instrument. Her eagerness to learn reminded him of another little girl long ago. His mind wandered as he listened to Adèle practice. She played rather well for her twelve years of age. She began to sing and her voice sounded like a sweet hummingbird. It was not as delicate as Christine's, but it was filled with the lightness of a girl who had not yet known the sadness that came from a cruel world. Erik hoped that she would never know it.

"Don't let her young age fool you," Sylvie told him after supper, as she sat knitting a long, green scarf. "She has suffered, poor child."

Erik glanced at the girl, who lay asleep on the chaise. "Forgive my curiosity…" he began.

Sylvie knew what he was asking. "We took her in after her mother died last year."

Ironic, thought Erik. "You were generous to take in a second orphan."

Startled, Sylvie glanced about as Adèle shifted in her sleep.

"I'm sorry," Erik apologized. "I forgot."

"It's a good thing Grandmaman did not hear you. Remember who you are," she lightly scolded.

Erik sat in silence, wondering who that might be. But Sylvie did not let him ruminate for long.

"Papa and Uncle Alain should be home any minute. They told me you have been a big help," she continued warmly.

"It is nothing."

She tied one last knot and cut the strand of yarn. "You have made Grandmaman so happy… You have done very well."

Erik stiffened. "I will stay until I am no longer needed."

Sylvie stared at him, mortified.

"Oh, that was not what I meant at all! You know you will always be wanted here."

"Always?"

"Tell me, are you not happy?"

Erik surveyed the cottage which was now his home. "I am happy here. And yet, sometimes I wonder how long I shall be allowed to remain…"

She got up and brought him the scarf. "You worry too much. We are Bonhommes and we stay together, whether the tide is high or low," she said as she draped it across his shoulders.

"There. I thought green would look best on you."

Stunned by the gift, Erik ran his fingers across its thick softness.

"You made this… for me?"

"Who else, silly?"

He put his cheek against it and smelled the yarn. He had wanted expensive cravats and waistcoats, but none of those could match a handmade gift which was more precious than all the luxuries he had ever amassed. A lump filled his throat.

"Thank you… I will wear it tomorrow," he said, forgetting that it was still summer.

She was pleased with his response.

"It's for winter. I thought I would start early this year. One never knows whether le Mistral will blow extremely cold during the coming season. You should put it away in your dresser."

But later, as Erik sat in the garden, gazing up at the stars, he wrapped the scarf around his shoulders once again. Surely cords of human kindness and trust could correct the distortion in his soul, could it not?

_They only treat you well because you are handsome_, whispered a shadowy voice.

"No!" cried Erik as dark images raced through his mind. In his vision he was ugly once again, and his new family fled from him in terror.

"You will not have me! Angel, help!" he cried.

_Resist them._

"How?"

_Follow me._

He grasped the scarf more tightly and prayed.

"I am a new man. The Phantom is no more!"

At length he felt peace come upon him and he knew that he would be all right. Once more, he glanced up at the stars.

"I will follow," he whispered.

----------------------------------

Their luggage packed, the cottage where Christine and Raoul had lived during the past months now stood empty. Christine could hardly contain her excitement as she surveyed its bare rooms. France! How she looked forward to seeing her adopted country again! She did not know what awaited her back home. Home… But home would never be the opera house again.

She had spent her days in Sweden as if a part of her soul was missing. Secretly she longed for the day when she could ride by the Arc d'Triomphe again and gaze upon the ashes of the Opera Populaire. Perhaps she would find some trace of her angel there. Christine kept these thoughts private, for she could not bring herself to tell her husband of her desire to see the one man who had wreaked such havoc in their lives. She could still feel his glove against her skin the first time he led her down into his lair.

"Christine? Madame de Chagny!" Raoul's voice brought her out of her thoughts. He stood before her, dressed and ready for their departure.

"Are you all right, my dear? You look a little pale," he said.

"I'm fine, Raoul… I'll miss this place," she replied, taking one last look.

He smiled tenderly at his wife, then drew her close and held her until she relaxed in his arms.

"We will come back someday."

"Someday," said Christine. But she knew that they would never see their little Swedish home again.


	7. Chapter 7

**Don't Speak of the Night  
(Ne Parlez Pas de la Nuit)  
By  
Lady Trueword**

Chapter 7: A Twist of Fate

As summer drew to a close, Erik felt more confident about his place in the world. He could tell jokes and amuse people with his humor, instead of frightening them with terror. His art continued to improve, so much that Sylvie felt he could soon display them in the gallery. One late August day, the Bonhommes set out for the countryside, and Erik fell in love with Aix-en-Provence at first sight. The mild climate and fresh air filled him with renewed vigor. They traveled to the Cézanne country estate, where they were greeted by the housekeeper.

"I am sorry, but Monsieur and Madame Cézanne went to Switzerland. They will be back next month."

Sylvie was disappointed, but gracious nonetheless.

"Merci, madame. Please let them know we came by."

"Sylvie," Grandmaman said later as they sat by the fireplace in their cottage, enjoying a supper of pâtes aux coquillages and brioches. "Why don't you invite them to Marseille?"

"An excellent idea, Maman."

"I am curious," asked Erik. "How did you come to know Monsieur Cézanne?"

Honoré rounded towards his wife. "Should we tell him?"

"Tell him what, dear?" replied Sylvie with feigned ignorance.

"Maman and Monsieur Cézanne are old friends," said Alain as he buttered his bread.

"I was lucky enough to be introduced to him by some influential patrons," said Sylvie.

"Patrons such as the Comte de Soissons?" asked Erik.

Sylvie paled at his mention of the name.

"How did you know about him?" she asked.

"He is the patron of our gallery. Is he not?"

"Oui, he was our patron," replied Sylvie, who looked discomfited.

"Was?"

"He died three years ago."

"Ah, je suis désolée," Erik quickly replied. He sensed that it would be best not to press her for more details. But the conversation intrigued him. Who was the Comte de Soissons and why was Sylvie so uncomfortable discussing him?

Honoré cleared his throat.

"Your uncle and I will go hunting tomorrow. Join us, Rene?"

"I would, but I believe Maman wanted me to experience painting in the countryside."

"We will all rise early in the morning, then," said Honoré as he put an arm around his wife.

The next morning Erik, Sylvie, Adèle, and Grandmaman Marie joined the ranks of artists that had set up their easels by the country road. Some travelers along the road stopped to watch the painters, while others hurried along, never noticing the beauty around them. Occasionally an artist would sell a painting, but Erik harbored no such ambitions when he sat down before his easel. He decided to paint the trees, but halfway through his work he was surprised to see a forest of ballerinas on his canvas instead.

"What a beautiful painting! Can I buy it, Raoul?"

Erik could scarcely believe his ears. With head bowed, he saw a woman's skirt flounce before him.

"Of course, ma cherie," rang the familiar voice. "Sir, would you sell your painting to my wife?"

Erik stared straight at Raoul, who looked back only with friendliness. Raoul did not recognize him. But Christine gazed intently upon the painter's face. There was something about those eyes…

Erik cleared his throat. "It is not finished."

Christine fought to keep her composure. That voice! If the man sitting in front of her had not looked so unlike her angel, she would have sworn that it was he.

"I like it just the way it is," she replied.

Erik watched her as she perused the canvas. She had the same ethereal beauty that had once enthralled him. When their eyes met again, she smiled, hoping that he could not see her trembling.

"It reminds me of a familiar place," she spoke again.

The torture! Erik felt his heart twist inside him. Why now, God? He wondered. He desperately wanted her to know that he was her angel of music. He could see the memories the painting elicited from her, the yearning in her eyes.

Raoul also noticed and put his arm tighter around his wife.

_Why, why, did you heal me, only to have me meet her again? I almost wish I had died in that hellish hole!_ But Erik could not allow himself to keep such thoughts, not after all the good things he had experienced in his new life. He was grateful when Grandmaman came to his aid.

"Are you all right, Rene?" she asked. "Let the gentleman know if you will sell your painting."

"I will pay you two hundred francs," Raoul offered eagerly.

Grandmaman gasped. "How generous of you, sir!"

Two hundred francs? That was a small fortune. Erik glanced at Christine again and saw her relief when at last he nodded. Raoul gave him the money and carefully took the canvas down from its easel. Erik could not bear the sight of them any more and lowered his head. Then he heard her heavenly voice again.

"Did you sign it, monsieur? May I have the pleasure of your name?"

Erik hoped she could not read his signature.

"Rene Bonhomme. It is a name befitting an artist," she said.

"Thank you, madame," he replied gruffly, hoping that she would go away. But she lingered.

"Are you from around here?" she asked.

Why was she so curious? Why couldn't she leave him to his pain?

"Marseille," he croaked.

Her face lit up. "That is where we are moving."

"Pardon me, monsieur," Raoul interrupted. "I have not yet introduced myself. I am Raoul de Chagny, and this is my wife, Christine."

Erik grudgingly obliged.

"A… pleasure, Vis… Monsieur de Chagny."

"Perhaps we will meet again in Marseille," said Raoul warmly.

"Perhaps."

Erik breathed a sigh of relief when they left. He hoped he would never meet them again. He looked up to see Grandmaman beaming at him. Nothing had escaped her attention. Not even his secret.

That night, Erik could not get Raoul and Christine out of his mind. The thought of them sent him into a gloom that he had not experienced in months. Christine had treated him as if he were a complete stranger – and he was the one person whom she would have recognized! He felt as if he were wearing a mask again, except this was one he could not remove.

Why did she have to come here? He had resigned himself to the thought that he would never see her again. Yet she had stood before him, still so beautiful, so serene... He thought he detected a trace of ennui in her eyes. Perhaps she was bored with Raoul? Her husband still seemed as eager to please her as he did before. Erik wondered what she thought of his creation.

Alone in her room at the inn, Christine stared at the painting. As she caressed its edges, she could not help but smile. The artist had captured her former life well. The costumes… the ballet shoes… memories of her teacher haunted her. Madame Giry had not seen nor heard of him since that terrible night.

She glanced at the painting again and drew her breath in sharply. Who was that in the corner? She thought her eyes were playing tricks on her. A dark figure hovered over one of the ballet girls. A... a phantom? Upon closer inspection, she found the ballet girl's small face resembled… hers. Chills ran up her spine. Difficult as it was to discern, she thought she could distinguish _his_ features, painted just as she remembered them.

Raoul came in and startled her.

"Admiring your new painting, Christine?"

"Oh, Raoul! Tomorrow we should go back and thank that artist. I want to buy another one of his paintings."

"But we are supposed to be in Marseille tomorrow…" he replied, dismayed.

Christine gazed at him with her dark doe eyes.

"Please, Raoul?" she begged.

He could not refuse, even if his reply was a bit reproachful.

"I thought we were moving to escape all of that," he said, nodding toward the painting.

"It is because we will never be back that I want to preserve my memories of it."

"Very well. Tomorrow we will go back and find this artist. What was his name?"

"Rene... Rene Bonhomme…"

* * *

Christine could not sleep. She had not looked closely enough at Rene's face. Although she had begun the conversation with Rene, she ended up letting Raoul do most of the talking as she idly stood by. Why? She watched Raoul breathe in his sleep. As time passed she slowly gave him more and more control. He was not unkind; in fact, he was as amiable as ever. But he was not a musical genius, nor a sensitive, tortured soul. Christine had expected to have a child by now, but months passed and she still had not conceived. She was sure this disappointed Raoul, who badly wanted a son.

When she thought of her angel she felt more pangs of wretched guilt. What if she had married him instead? Poor, sobbing creature of darkness who had told her he was a dog, ready to die for her. But he was just too… too ugly! It was not only his face that had caused her to abhor him. If he had looked even like a plain man, she probably could have accepted him. Then she would have spent her days making music with the lover of her soul. Why did she leave him in the cold darkness, all alone?

_Vanity! It was your pride that prevented you, Christine!_

_But he was a criminal and a murderer…_

_He was going mad for you…_

Christine shut her eyes as her thoughts warred with each other. A sigh escaped her lips, causing her husband to turn in his sleep.

God forgive me, she prayed. She hoped her angel could find happiness and forget her.

* * *

Early in the morning, Erik felt restless and went out alone to the country road. He set up his easel to paint a scene he knew well – the Paris skyline at night. He was so immersed in his work that he was oblivious to the commotion surrounding him. 

When he finally sensed someone watching him he looked and saw a woman standing behind a tree some metres away. He adjusted the brim of his hat, hoping she would not approach him.

Cautiously, the woman came toward him until he saw that she was none other than Madame de Chagny. Confound it! Why did she have to show up again? Where was her husband? She stopped by his easel and gazed at him, her eyes full of hope.

"Monsieur Bonhomme… I bought one of your paintings yesterday…"

Erik cleared his throat. It is good that I did not paint the roof yet, he thought.

"Oui?"

"I wonder... where did you get the idea for that painting… The ballerina girls?"

"Where does any artist get his ideas?" he replied, annoyed. He wished she would go away of her own accord.

"Monsieur, I find the figures in the painting intriguing… Especially the one known as the… the Phantom of the Opera…"

Erik wanted to curse at that moment. He should not have painted himself, but the notion had been irresistible.

"Are you Parisien?" she continued.

_Some day your curiosity will get you in trouble, Christine._

"I used my imagination, is all," he said wearily. He knew she was so curious, so he tilted his head up towards the sun. As he expected, her face fell.

Christine knew it was rude for her to stare so long, but her hopes were dashed the moment she saw his face in full.

_He has a good visage, but it is not the marred one of my beloved. _

Beloved… Wasn't Raoul her beloved?

"I'm sorry, monsieur… I won't bother you again," she said dejectedly.

She turned away and immediately Erik regretted what he did. He had hurt her. But he sat, not moving a muscle.

"Madame?" he barely managed to speak.

She stopped, her face still downcast.

"You are moving to Marseille?"

"Oui, monsieur."

Erik found a piece of paper and scribbled his address on it.

"Our address," he said as he gave it to her. "You are… welcome to visit, if you want company…"

Her face brightened.

"Thank you, monsieur. You are most kind. It will be good to have friends in a new city... Au revoir."

Erik wanted to say more, but decided it would be unwise. He watched her solitary figure disappear into the woods and felt hope stirring in his heart. Hope? You fool! You were not supposed to see her again!

"What have I done?" he murmured.

"You were being hospitable, son. I am proud of you," a gentle voice replied.

He looked askance at Sylvie, who smiled at him with breakfast in hand.

"Crêpes?"

"Oui, merci, Maman."

In the woods, Christine stopped to read the piece of paper Erik gave her.

"23 Rue de la Fleur."

The lettering looked so familiar she had not given it a second thought. It was a hasty scrawl, but still recognizable. A smile crossed her face as she put it back in her pocket. She hurried back towards the inn, but just then Raoul galloped up to her on his horse.

"Christine, darling! Where did you go? I was worried!"

"I'm sorry, Raoul. I went for a walk."

"Come," he beckoned.

She gave him her hand and he hoisted her up on to his horse. Christine took one last look behind her as they sped away, but she saw nothing except the road and the trees.

_You are my angel of music… Come to me, angel of music…_


	8. Chapter 8

**Don't Speak of the Night  
(Ne Parlez Pas de la Nuit)  
****By  
****Lady Trueword**

Chapter 8: Reflections

_**A big thank you to all of my wonderful readers and reviewers out there: Kriegle, Icelands, Steelelf, ChristmasShoes, Romanticfan, Gerrysjackie, LaRosaNegra, Dr. Strangelove Lover, lillie chan, and all my friends at the GB sites!**_

Erik could not get Christine out of his mind. He had dreaded the inevitable end of September and his return to Marseille, and he tried to quell any lingering hope in his heart.

_I need her... _

_No! She must not know!_

His desires clashed within him. Even worse, his prayers for relief seemed to go unanswered. How could he tell her who he was… without telling her?

As he seesawed his way out of his bedroom he gave his dark hair a perfunctory sweep. Sunlight streaming through the hallway window temporarily blinded him, leaving him to rely on his nose to guide him to the kitchen, where the aroma of freshly-made crêpes aroused his appetite. Slowly, he found his way to his chair. Ahhh…

"Ahhh!!" he yelled when he saw the man sitting in his chair. For a moment Erik thought he was looking at his old face again, except that the sad eyes staring back at him were brown instead of green. An instant revulsion filled him.

"Jacques, have you met my son?" Sylvie asked pleasantly as she poured coffee into his cup. "Rene, this is Monsieur Jacques Beauchamp," she added. "I taught his art class when he was just a boy. He is staying with us tonight."

"My apologies, I did not mean to startle you," Jacques said as he rose to his feet. He was approximately the same age and height as Erik. His clothes, though fine, were worn, but his speech and demeanor were gracious and refined. Erik took a deep breath and tried to suppress his discomfort.

"Bonjour, Monsieur Beauchamp," he replied stiffly.

"The pleasure is mine."

"Come sit beside me, Rene," implored Adèle.

"Adèle saved you a seat," added Grandmaman warmly.

Erik sat but could barely eat. He studied Jacques' face, which resembled a rotten, half-eaten squash.

_Was this how I looked to Christine?_ Erik wondered as his stomach twisted like a wrung towel. He suddenly felt ashamed of his erstwhile expressions of passion for her. _What were you thinking! How could she ever love a monster like you!_

"Rene, did you know that Monsieur Jacques is a talented musician?" asked Uncle Alain.

A musician? This piqued Erik's interest.

"Merci, you are too kind, monsieur. I have not played since the war," said Jacques.

"No matter. I remember your brilliant performance of the Sonata Pathétique," Sylvie replied with a proud smile. "Your hands played with such dexterity, such skill. I hope you will play again some time."

Erik bristled with jealousy at such a compliment to Jacques, who gazed at her with water standing in his eyes.

"Merci, madame. You… cannot imagine what such kind words mean to a man who has lived as an outcast," he said with a soft sob.

Something in Erik's heart resounded with a painful echo.

"You do not have to live this way, Jacques. Stay with us. Here you will have all the time you need to recover," Honoré offered.

Jacques shook his head.

"I could not impose such a burden on you. It is enough that you let me stay here for one night. I must go to Paris to visit my friend. His maman died and he is all alone now."

"Poor dear." said Grandmaman.

Jacques lowered his head and sighed.

"During the war…" he began. Then he stopped himself, as if too ashamed to speak.

"Tell us," urged Sylvie gently.

"I fought alongside a man who became my best friend. Marc was tough, he had seen many battles. But he treated me like a younger brother. He was a good soldier, who like me, only had his maman left in this world… One day, when we were out scouting our surroundings, the enemy saw us…"

He gave such a awful pause that nobody dared breathe.

"They started firing at us. I was badly injured by a mortar explosion. Marc was also injured, but God bless his soul, he managed to carry me back to camp and he would not leave me. The doctors worked on me for over a day before they announced that I would possibly live. And live I did. I was fortunate in that I did not suffer loss of limb. But something far worse had befallen me... For my face! My face!"

Erik squirmed. Jacques took a swig of coffee like a half-drunken sailor before resuming his tale.

"The front of my body, including my head, as you can see, took the brunt of the injury -- a most gruesome sight. Marc was kind enough to give my maman and fiancée the dreadful news. Sweet Solange... We were to marry last June..."

Jacques moaned in anguish like a wounded bear.

"After five months, I was finally discharged. Marc requested special permission to accompany me home."

"Where?" asked Adèle.

"Adèle! Always so nosy," Sylvie scolded.

Jacques glanced at the little girl sorrowfully.

"Rouen. I will never forget the faces of those who were once my friends, my relatives, my neighbors -- those who had cared for me in the past. One by one, as they saw my face, they shuddered and drew back. Even the woman I loved screamed and fled when she saw me. She thought I was blind and deaf, but I had seen and heard enough to know that I had lost her forever…"

Erik felt a lump forming in his throat. He bit his lip, hoping to find a way to escape from the table.

"As we drew near the house where I was born, Maman was waiting at the door. How serene and hopeful she looked! As Marc and I approach her, a breeze blew off my hat, revealing my charred features in full. She became white as a sheet and let out a wail. I stretched out my arms, eager for the love of the one person on this earth who had cherished me since I was a babe. How I longed for her! But she turned away and went back into the house, shutting the door behind her. A few moments later, she emerged with a straw sack in her hands. She threw it over my head and shoved me into the house as if I were a loathsome creature instead of her son..."

Erik felt as if he would vomit. He held on to the edge of his seat until his knuckles turned white.

"Marc was my only friend. He visited when he could," continued Jacques. "But each time he came he saw that my spirits had sunk lower and lower, until I reached bottom. Maman refused to kiss or touch me. Twice Marc chastised her, but she looked at him as if he were mad."

Erik could no longer bear it. He leaped up out of his chair with his fists clenched, his entire body shaking with rage.

"Cruel, heartless woman! You were her son!" he yelled.

Slowly, he became aware of the wide-eyed stares from around the table. He breathed hard through his heaving chest and tried to calm himself.

"I… apologize for shouting. Excuse me…"

Erik fled to his study, unable to shake off memories of his own biological mother's coldness and cruelty. He collapsed on the piano bench and began to play a melancholy tune. Strands of subdued music quickly morphed into an angry, thunderous roar as he pounded on the keys. He did not know how long he sat there, consumed with fury.

"You are not my maman!" he growled between gritted teeth.

A sob rose from his diaphragm and threatened to reach his throat.

"No!" he cried, but tidal waves of sorrow overcame his resistance. Soon tears were streaming down his cheeks and he wept like a broken little boy. He did not hear the studio door open or see Sylvie, Honoré, and Grandmaman Marie's concerned faces.

"Rene?"

Erik wiped his face with the back of his sleeve and sat with his head bowed. He could not face them.

"I am sorry, Maman."

"Jacques' story upset you."

Erik shook his head. "It's… nothing."

Sylvie knelt beside him, took his hands and looked into his eyes.

"Listen to me. I do not know what terrible things you have experienced, but if such an awful thing, mon Dieu, should ever happen to you, I would still be your maman, you hear? Even if you were unrecognizable, you would still be my Rene!"

She spoke with such conviction that Honoré could only nod. Erik knew that she meant it with every fiber of her being, and standing next to her, Grandmaman was equally adamant.

"God bless you," he replied with tears in his eyes.

Without a word, they embraced him. When Erik looked up, he saw Jacques standing beside the piano with Alain and Adèle.

"I am sorry I upset you, Monsieur Rene," said Jacques. "But I must say that you play very well."

Erik wished there was something he could say other than, "merci."

"Please visit us if you ever need a place to stay," he offered with complete sincerity.

Jacques managed a slight upturn of his crooked lips.

"Thank you. That means a lot to me. Do you mind if I borrow your piano? I would very much like to play something for you. It would be my way of making up for the distress I have caused."

Erik yielded the piano. "Not at all. We would be delighted to hear you perform." He smiled when he saw the look of delight on Adèle's face.

Jacques played Beethoven so well that it left no doubt in Erik's mind that Sylvie's praise was well-deserved. He spent the rest of the day with his new friend, discussing intricate details of composition, melody, timbre, and style until late into the night. At last, someone other than Christine had heard him, someone who understood the language of music! Silently, Erik praised God for the sweetness of friendship.

As the clock struck midnight, Jacques paused and touched his cheek.

"Do you think… that anyone could love this?" he asked.

Erik put his hand firmly on Jacques' shoulder.

"I do not know if any woman could. But I do know this -- God in heaven above cares for you. And if you love others more than yourself, good will come."

_Why did you just tell him that, Erik? You know God is just a myth._

_Shut up, you devil!_

"You seem confident in what you are saying," said Jacques.

Erik nodded. "Forgive me, for I cannot give you details, but my circumstances, believe me, were once quite similar to yours. I have seen the deep, black, bottomless pit of despair.

"How did you climb out of that abyss?"

"I will tell you plainly that I did not do it," Erik replied as he pointed upwards. He could hardly believe the straightforward way in which he spoke about it. "He did. I would not be here if it weren't for him. And I am most grateful."

"You believe in God, then?" asked Jacques. "Sometimes, I wonder if he exists at all."

"I do now," replied Erik softly. "I saw one of his angels with my own eyes."

"Was it not a dream? Or perhaps a hallucination?"

Erik chuckled. "If that is the case, my whole life is a dream, and you are but a hallucination."

Jacques grinned.

"Perhaps so, my friend. Perhaps so… Pray for me," he implored.

"I will," replied Erik before he could think of a reason not to. By the time he bid farewell to Jacques the next morning, both men had slept little.

"Godspeed, Jacques," he said as he stood at the front door, watching, until his friend was out of sight. He dimly hoped that the residents of Paris would be kinder to Jacques than they had been to him.

A messenger boy ran up to him with a letter.

"Is this the Bonhomme residence?"

"Oui."

"A message from Monsieur and Madame de Chagny," announced the boy as he held out an envelope.

Erik's hands shook as he grasped the letter. Slowly, he tore it open and read its contents. He was not prepared for an onslaught of questions from Adèle.

"What is it, mon **frère**? Is it a letter? Who is it from?" she asked excitedly.

"It's… from Monsieur and Madame de Chagny," he said as she followed him into the house. "They have settled in Marseille and would like to… visit us."

"That's wonderful!" said Grandmaman. "They seemed like very nice people, so generous."

"Yes…"

"What's the matter, Rene?" asked Sylvie. "Don't you want them to come?"

"Nothing... They should come."

"More guests!" said Grandmaman excitedly. "I can't wait to redecorate the sitting room!"

Erik listened as they happily discussed hors d'oeuvres and place settings. No one noticed when he turned away towards the window. With a glint in his eye, he steeled himself for the challenge.

"Let them come."


	9. Chapter 9

**Don't Speak of the Night  
(Ne Parlez Pas de la Nuit)  
By  
Lady Trueword**

Chapter 9: Convergence

Happy was the day when Madame de Chagny looked out of the kitchen window of her seaside maison in Marseille. Raoul saw her joy and was glad. She was becoming his Little Lotte again, and yet there was still a part of her that was far, far away, as if lost in a dream.

Christine tried not to think too much about that handsome, mysterious stranger who had painted the ballet girls at the Opera Populaire as if he had been there. She was more concerned about his tardiness in replying to her offer of a patronage. She hung his painting in her new study, where she often sat and stared at it. When she finally felt settled, she and Raoul took a basket full of baked goods and set off for 23 Rue de la Fleur. They were greeted at the door by a pleasant, middle-aged man.

"Bonjour! Monsieur et Madame de Chagny, I presume? I am Honoré Bonhomme. Welcome to my humble residence."

"Bonjour, Monsieur Bonhomme," replied Raoul.

"Come in, come in," Sylvie greeted them as they stepped inside. "Rene! Your patrons are here!" she yelled towards the study.

The hairs on the back of Erik's neck stood up when he heard, "patrons". He was beginning to detest that word.

_You can do this. Remember, you are Rene Bonhomme._

He took a deep breath and straightened his cravat before trotting out into the sitting room. Then he saw her and the world stood still for a millisecond. His green eyes flashed as he gave a her a curt bow.

"Madame, monsieur, I bid you welcome."

His voice made Christine's spine tingle. They all sat and began a polite conversation. Erik positioned himself across from his guests, eyeing their every move. He noticed the way Christine examined everything and was grateful that the piano was hidden away from sight. Soon Alain, Grandmaman and Adèle came out of the kitchen with the tea.

"Ah, our guests!" exclaimed Adèle enthusiastically. "Will you stay for supper? We were preparing fish."

"Oui, merci, mademoiselle," replied Christine. "I brought some biscuits."

"Why, that's perfect," said Grandmaman warmly.

Honoré cleared his throat. "Forgive me for being slow to introduce the rest of my family, Monsieur de Chagny. This is my brother Alain, my maman Marie, and my daughter Adèle."

Raoul's eyes widened when he saw Adèle, but he said nothing. Adèle gave Christine a little curtsey. "You are very beautiful, madame."

"It's Madame de Chagny, Adèle," Sylvie corrected her.

"That's quite all right," said Christine. She was fond of the girl already. Adèle's large, expressive eyes reminded her of Meg's. "Adèle is a sweet name. How many brothers or sisters do you have?"

Adèle beamed at Erik. "Just my older brother."

Christine tried to decipher the look in Erik's eyes. Clearly there was brotherly pride, but something else was lurking beneath those green orbs…

"How long has your family lived in Marseille, if I may ask?" Raoul inquired.

"We have been here five generations, monsieur," said Grandmaman proudly.

"Your last name is… de Chagny. Is that where your family is from, monsieur?" Erik asked with feigned interest. He could not believe how easily the vicomte's name rolled off his lips. In a former life, he would have cursed it. However, now he could do little but smile. Raoul looked so much older. He seemed less like of a slave of fashion and more like a serious man of business.

"Oui. That is where we are from, monsieur," replied Raoul congenially.

Erik grumbled inwardly. _Why the pretense? Just tell us you are the Vicomte de Chagny and be done with it!_

"Your name sounds familiar," said Sylvie. "Forgive my curiosity, but you would not, perchance, be related to the Vicomte de Chagny, would you?"

Both Raoul and Erik stared at her, stunned. How did she know?

"Why, yes…in fact, I am," Raoul replied uncomfortably. "But… you see, I resigned my title…"

Erik nearly choked on his tea._ Resigned?_

"You need not worry, monsieur. I know of your name only because my patron, the Comte de Soissons, had mentioned it."

Raoul perked up, his eyes brimming with interest. "The Comte de Soissons? I believe he was a good friend of my grandfather's. He was your patron?"

"Oui, he sponsored my gallery. I am… indebted to him."

Erik could not help but notice Sylvie's flushed cheeks and the sparkle in her eye.

"He was a generous man, a good man. I remember attending his funeral," said Raoul.

Sylvie nodded. "You are most kind. It must have been difficult to give up your title."

Raoul gently took his wife's hand.

"She is worth it."

Christine blushed and briefly touched her forehead to Raoul's. Erik tried to keep from noticing.

_Mon Dieu, help me! I thought I could handle this, but I cannot!_ His mind whirled as he tried to think of an excuse to get away.

"I'll bring us more tea," he offered as he stood.

"Don't trouble yourself, Rene," said Marie as she rose from her chair.

"Sit, Grandmaman," Erik commanded. Before anyone else could protest, he took the teapot and sprinted to the kitchen, conscious of all eyes upon him, including _hers_. Little did he realize how familiar his figure and gait were to her. And his profile… She desperately wanted to touch his face.

"Madame, you must tell us of your trip to Marseille," Sylvie entreated.

"Of… course!" Christine stammered. She shyly gave them details of their travels through Paris and the Scandinavian countries, careful to avoid all mention of her singing career at the Opera Populaire. Everyone listened with rapt attention, including Erik, whose keen ears picked up every word from where he stood in the kitchen.

_So she omitted the past. _Just as well, he thought. Just her mere presence in the same room made his senses swim. He questioned himself again as to why he had extended her hospitality all those weeks ago in the country. He had never thought he would ever hear her voice again, and now its sweet cadence was sheer torture. Erik balled up his fists and shut his eyes. He had to take control now or his soul would once again sink into that miry dungeon of despair, a prison ten times worse than his former home.

"All you all right, my brother?" came a sweet, soft voice.

His eyes flew open and he saw a kind, innocent little girl standing in front of him. Sweet, sweet Adèle! She brought him into the light once more.

"Grandmaman sent me... You were having another bad memory, weren't you?" she asked solemnly. "Oh, don't be surprised. She told me sometimes you have bad dreams about the war..."

Trembling, Erik reached out to her. Adèle needed no words to understand what he was asking. She ran straight into his arms and they held each other tight. When they finally left the kitchen together, Erik saw the questions on his visitors' faces. He set the tea down before them and quickly apologized.

"The water took a little longer to heat," he said, hoping no one would comment. Alain raised an eyebrow but kept quiet.

"Rene, you just missed Madame de Chagny's tales of her travels to Scandinavia."

"Scandinavia? Did you visit Gothenburg?" asked Erik.

"Why, yes, I used to live there before I moved to Paris," she replied, surprised.

"Ah," said Erik. He cautioned himself not to divulge any knowledge of Little Lotte's past. "I had heard of the town."

"Ever since he was a boy, Rene had always wanted to travel the world," said Grandmaman.

"I myself am tired of traveling," replied Raoul. "I hope to settle down in Marseille for a long time. But those who have the desire and fortitude to travel, by all means, they should go."

"On behalf of the citizens of Marseille, we welcome you, Monsieur de Chagny," said Alain. "We are a diverse community, but we do know how to be hospitable."

"Next week is the ladies' tea at my gallery. I would be honored if you came, madame. I could introduce you to my patrons." said Sylvie.

"I would be delighted," replied Christine.

"And I invite you to sail with us, Monsieur de Chagny," said Honoré.

"Merci. As I do not own a boat yet, I would be most happy to accept your invitation."

"Splendid," said Honoré as he beamed at Erik. "We have another sailor."

Erik gave Honoré a taut upturn of the lips. _What did I do?_ Raoul becoming a family friend was not part of the plan. He glanced at Christine, who was having a happy conversation with Sylvie, and thought she looked a bit tired. When he was still the Opera Ghost, he had tried once to take her away and hide her from the world. She was his joy, his treasure, his voice! He had her under his spell… well, almost. Now he wondered if she had recovered from the havoc he had wreaked in her life. Guilt filled his heart and he blamed himself for having crushed the rose, perhaps beyond repair.

_Christine, forgive me…_ he repeated over and over in his mind. Perhaps this was one small way of atoning for his sins…

Her head swiveled in his direction as if in reply. Their eyes met and locked for a moment.

"Monsieur Rene, have you ever been to the Opera Populaire in Paris?" she asked.

Erik swiftly averted his eyes.

"I… I had read about it…" he replied, his heart pounding. "Have _you_ ever been there?"

His question sounded more like a challenge than a query. Christine glanced at Raoul.

"Several times, monsieur. I was their patron... until the opera house burned down…"

Old bitterness welled up within Erik. _And you denied me my dreams..._

"You were their patron?" exclaimed Sylvie. "Ah, what a shame. Perhaps the opera house will be rebuilt someday?"

"Perhaps," Raoul replied dryly. "Surely Paris could not lack such a place."

"Speaking of patrons, Monsieur Bonhomme, you have not replied to our offer yet," Christine chided.

Erik inwardly cringed. How could he politely refuse her, especially when his whole family was waiting, their faces hopeful?

"Madame… Perhaps you are not aware, but I am not a professional artist. However, my maman is. Perhaps you could sponsor her..."

He waited for a flurry of protests, but heard only silence until Raoul laughed.

"What a modest man you are! You underestimate your talent, monsieur. Perhaps my offer of two hundred francs a month is not good enough?"

"It is extremely generous of you. However, I am not accustomed to working for anyone. I am afraid I may disappoint you."

"Nonsense. You will have free reign to do what you like, so long as you please _my_ _wife_."

Erik did not know which was worse—to have Raoul de Chagny as his patron, or to be under the whims and dictates of his former pupil. He tried not to grit his teeth as he squeaked out an answer.

"If it would please you, madame."

Christine clasped her hands in delight.

"Oh, it would! We will start tomorrow! I have so many ideas for you to paint!"

Erik sat, dumbfounded, as everyone congratulated him.

"My brother, the artiste, hooray!" cheered Adèle.

He had always wanted the attention of aristocrats and wealthy men and women who might patronize his work. But not like this.

_What are you waiting for? Go in for the kill! _A dark voice arose within him.

_No! I am a new man. This is my chance…_

"I assure you that my son will do his utmost for you, madame," he heard Sylvie tell Christine.

"Pshaw, you can call me Christine."

"Angel, what shall I do?" he murmured, struggling with all his might to overcome his old instincts.

Christine turned her head sharply.

"What did you say?" she asked.

Startled, Erik gaped at her. Did she hear him?

"I… was wondering what to do with my… good fortune. Perhaps I could buy Adèle a nice dress or two?"

Adèle's head lifted and she looked as if she would burst with happiness.

"Really? You are the best brother in the world!" she screamed as she pounced on him.

"For the best little sister in the world!" said Erik as he twirled her around.

"Don't spoil her, Rene. She is quite vain as it is," Sylvie warned. But behind her frown Erik saw mirth in her crinkled eyes.

"Don't worry, maman. I shall make her only the second most spoiled little girl in all of Marseille," replied Erik with a devilish grin. He tried to steal a glance of Christine, but Raoul blocked her from his sight.

_You must get rid of him. He stands in the way of your happiness._

_I am no longer a murderer!_

_Poor, stupid fool! Will you lose her once more to him? _

_I want her to be happy._

_You weakling. You think you will please her by sacrificing your own happiness?_

_She chose him. _

_Only because you were not strong enough! When will you learn to take what is yours, once and for all?_

_Shut up! I will show you that I am a new man!_

But Erik was sinking fast and he knew it. He could only give Christine a desperate glance.

"Madame de Chagny," Sylvie began. "Perhaps for Rene's first project he could paint a portrait of you and your husband."

"A splendid idea!" cried Raoul. "We never had a wedding portrait. This would be the perfect opportunity."

"Oh, yes!" Christine agreed. "Please, Monsieur Bonhomme?"

He could not resist her. Erik managed a smile, despite knowing that he would be doing something totally against his nature, something his heart bitterly opposed. But he would not care. Suddenly, he felt lightness in his body, as if a burden was lifted from his soul.

_Au revoir, my night. Your end has come. Dawn is here, and I will step into the light._


	10. Chapter 10

**Don't Speak of the Night  
(Ne Parlez Pas de la Nuit)  
By  
Lady Trueword**

Chapter 10: Brother's Keeper

Honoré whistled as he secured the sails of his boat, the _Belle Mer_. He glanced up at the azure sky. It was a warm, fair day with floating white clouds and a crisp breeze, perfect for sailing. Yards away from him, Erik and Raoul trudged down the dock, towing supplies behind them in a cart. Erik had managed to utter very little to the man beside him, but this only made Raoul all the more eager for conversation.

"It's ironic," Raoul began, "For I had grown weary of traveling everywhere by ship, yet you see me here, looking forward to sailing on a boat. Perhaps it is because I am among _amis_."

Erik winced at the word. If only the former vicomte knew. Raoul seemed so trusting to the point of being naïve. Clearly some of Christine's innocence had rubbed off on him.

"Perhaps," Erik replied dully. He wished de Chagny would keep his mouth shut and the day would pass quickly.

"Rene," Raoul stopped the man he now regarded as a friend. "I feel as if I can trust you. I cannot thank you enough, by the way, for that beautiful wedding portrait." He did not know what it was that inclined him to trust Rene. It seemed as if they had previously shared in some common life experience together.

Erik was surprised by the depth of emotion in Raoul's voice. Bewildered, he attempted in vain to keep his stony composure as he hardened his grip on the cart. No one had trusted him like this before, at least no man did.

"I… I am honored, monsieur."

"I told you before, you may call me Raoul."

"Raoul," Erik repeated stiffly.

"Perhaps you think that once I acquaint myself with those of high society, I will no longer feel these sentiments. But I assure you, I desire to be your closest friend."

"Why?"

The pointed question did not ruffle Raoul one bit.

"It is precisely because of such forthrightness that I feel I can trust you," he said with a chuckle. "You see, for most of my life--due to my position and wealth--many have flattered me in the hopes of gaining favor. But a true friend is hard to find. A brother in spirit is even rarer."

Erik could not believe his ears. Did de Chagny just use the word, "brother"?

"I am afraid, good monsieur, that I deserve no such compliment," he replied.

"No one is without fault," said Raoul. "I myself have plenty."

"You seem like an honorable man," Erik said with a forced smile. "Certainly you are very generous."

A look of remorse crossed the other man's face. "I try," Raoul replied softly. "Perhaps I will tell you more some day."

Back at the boat, Honoré saw the two men tarrying on the docks and wondered what they were discussing.

"Gentlemen!" he yelled loudly enough to get the attention of all on the dock.

"There are no gentlemen here!" a crude fisherman yelled back, and a roar of laughter ensued from his compatriots. Raoul and Erik hurried on to the boat. As soon as everything was set in place, they sailed out into the blue Mediterranean. Raoul observed everything with utmost fascination and asked Honoré many questions, to the point where Erik became slightly agitated.

"What is our destination today, papa?" he asked.

"Destination? I never have a destination, Rene. But I suppose Monsieur de Chagny wouldn't mind a trip to Cassis today?"

"Why, yes, I would be delighted to visit."

"I assure you, they have the finest seafood there. Rene, be prepared to bring home two crates of _poisson_."

"_Oui_," Erik replied as he swallowed hard. De Chagny had everything he had ever desired – the girl, the good name, the respect and the wealth. What more could he possibly want? For the next half hour Erik dragged his feet, immersed in the gloom of pity. It was all the more astonishing to him then, when Raoul later confided to his new friend, "Sometimes I envy you, monsieur."

"Me? Surely you jest."

"_Mais non_, for your papa is the father I had always wanted. My own father was a good man. He was widely respected, but quite austere, and we were never too close. You, on the other hand, are fortunate to have such a close-knit family."

"And you have a beautiful wife," Erik reminded him as he tried once again to hide any traces of bitterness. He looked away to the dash of white foam running up against the boat.

"_Oui_, in that I am."

You arrogant fool, thought Erik. At that moment he wondered if he might have the opportunity to push de Chagny overboard.

"And you, Rene, have you never married?"

"Eh? _Jamais_. I was in love once, but… she spurned me for another."

"I see," said Raoul carefully. "And you have never recovered?"

"My heart will recover in time, I suppose, when I am in my grave."

Erik expected his rival to protest, but Raoul remained silent. Instead, a look of sympathy crossed his face, which sickened Erik to the core. Sympathy from de Chagny? Never!

"Let us go to my father. I am sure we are within sight of Cassis now."

"Yes," said Raoul, grateful for the change of subject. He thought he detected something in Erik's tone that reminded him of a man he once knew – a man of darkness.

Honoré's boat sailed back into Marseille harbor that afternoon with crate loads of tuna and anchovies, just as he had promised his guest. The three sailors walked into the house, greeted by the women who belonged to them. Pain wrenched Erik's heart when he saw how Christine greeted Raoul. As soon as he finished putting everything away, he announced that he would go back out to sail.

"But it's almost night!" Sylvie protested.

"You know I like sailing at night, maman," Erik replied. He bowed stiffly to Raoul and Christine. "My apologies, but I take my leave of you."

"We should return home as well," said Raoul. "Thank you, Monsieur Bonhomme, for having us."

"My pleasure," replied Honoré. "I shall accompany you."

"There is no need," Raoul declined politely. "For we live only a short distance away." He turned to Christine. "Darling, if you don't mind, I would like to extend our hospitality to the Bonhommes next month."

Christine's eyes lit up like rays of sunshine.

"Oh, yes! That would be wonderful!" she said.

Erik immediately felt a surge of pain, a piercing ache within. As soon as all formalities were exchanged, he escorted them out of the house, and with a nod of his head, went down to the docks. He never saw the look of affection in Christine's eyes as she gazed wistfully after him, nor could he feel the strong affinity she felt to him. It was as if she had known him all her life, and could read the great sadness and loneliness that permeated his life.

Erik could not wait to slip into his boat, _la Rose_. He had been careful to avoid all references to the past except this one, and was glad that he did not name it _le masque_ or something similar. It was a small boat, an old, cheap boat he had purchased with money he received from his new patrons. But he loved working hard to paint and refurnish it. With _le Mistral_ not yet arrived, he was still able to sail often during spare moments. He would sing only when he was on board, in a place far enough from shore where no one could hear him. Tonight he sang the angry, lusty notes of _Point of No Return_, but the melody quickly gave way to melancholy strains of _All I Ask of You_.

"Say you love me… every waking moment…"

Erik struck the side of the boat. What was he doing? Why was he torturing himself again? Memories of that night in the lair made his eyes water, but he quickly dashed them away. Christine would not be his – ever. Oh, maybe someday when she was an old widow she might care for him, but he was sure by then he would already be in the ground.

_Help me, angel?_ He waited and listened quietly for an answer, but only heard the sound of the ocean at night. He tried to think of an excuse to sail far, far away. Perhaps he could sign up for the military, make up a story to go back to Paris, or travel anywhere but a place where Christine was located. He wondered if she knew. Did she have any inkling that he was the man who had once adored and terrorized her?

But if he left Marseille, he was sure that the Bonhommes would miss him terribly, especially little Adèle. He had grown to love his adopted family, for they fully accepted him. He shuddered as he thought of his former underground home--dark, damp, and void of laughter. And what of his duty as the oldest son? Oldest son! What duty? He was not their son, no matter how Honoré and Sylvie insisted. He had no obligation—

_You owe them._

Erik groaned. His head hurt just trying to figure it all out.

_Why can't I just let her go? _

"She was mine," he cried out into the darkness.

He heard the gentle reply that came to him._ Love them the way I love you._

He thought of her husband. Did he have to love de Chagny as himself?

When Erik returned home, everyone was asleep except for Alain, who sat at the kitchen table with his usual cup of tea and a couple of books. Tonight he was reading about Siam.

"Where did you go? Did you make it all the way to Italy?" he inquired. "We saved you some supper, if you're still hungry."

Erik gazed at the long face behind the wire-rimmed spectacles. Alain always acted as if he knew too much.

"I lost track of time, uncle," he replied matter-of-factly.

Alain's lips parted into a sardonic grin.

"You are not the only one who has demons to exorcise," he replied as he put down his cup. He slid one of the books over to Erik and then excused himself to go to bed.

Erik stared at Alain's back, wondering what he meant. What demons could possibly haunt him? He sighed. Maybe in time Alain would trust him enough to tell. Until then, Erik would pray for him as he had started to do for the entire Bonhomme family every night. He looked down at the book Alain passed him. It was the Bible--in Latin. After promising himself that he would read it from start to finish, Erik's thoughts drifted back to Raoul and Christine. Could he love Raoul as himself for Christine's sake? For God's sake? His natural desires and passions resisted such a notion, but the best part of him, the part that God had touched, knew what had to be done. He had to be noble. He had to be honorable. In short, he had to be a true gentleman.

A rustling noise startled him and he swiveled around. There stood Adèle in her nightgown, clutching her doll. She rubbed her sleepy eyes as she shuffled towards him.

"I'm thirsty."

Wordlessly, Erik got up and filled a clean glass with water. He gave it to her and she gulped it down. Afterwards he expected her to run back to bed, but instead she stood there, as if studying him.

"What is it, Adèle?"

"What will you wear to the ball?"

"Ball? What ball?"

"Madame de Chagny's costume ball, of course," Adèle's excitement grew with each word. "I asked if she was going to put on a fancy ball, and she said 'Oui Adèle, a new year's ball would be perfect.' She said I could be a princess! And maman's going to make me a new dress!"

Erik blinked. A costume ball? Why a costume ball? He remembered all the careful preparation it took for him just to dress as Red Death. All the fabrics, leathers, cosmetics, jewelry, weapons… yes, weapons…

"Maybe you could be a prince," Adèle continued in her unabated enthusiasm. "You will attend, won't you? Grandmaman was delighted when Madame said she will invite many young ladies. Maybe you will find a wife! Then I'll have a sister. Wouldn't that be grand?"

_Yes… Of course…_ _And no one would recognize him…_ Erik's lips curled into a crooked grin.

"I could be something better than a prince."

"Like what?" asked the little girl curiously.

"It's a secret. But I promise you that it will be better."

She wrinkled her nose.

"What could be better than being a prince?" she wondered aloud. But he would not give her the answer, despite her pleas.

"Go to bed now, Adèle. When the time comes, you will see," he said as he escorted her back to her room, Bible in hand. After he put her to bed, he hummed as he half-waltzed to his room. That old familiar feeling of sheer power came over him as his mind reveled in his memories of that night at the opera house--the gruesome white mask he wore, the flow of his red cape over his shoulders, and the sword he once carried--all of which had petrified his spellbound audience.

_Why so silent good monsieurs?_

_Did you think that I had left you for good?_

_Have you missed me good monsieurs?_

_I have come back from the dead!_

He could do it again. Only this time, they would all succumb, and he would have complete domination over them. Now that his appearance was no longer an obstacle, he could lay hold of what so ever he desired. Wealth, fame, fortune, and power--all the delights of man--he would obtain, as he deserved. And a wife, too…

_Angel, help! I'm falling!_

_Get close to the vicomte… learn his secrets… then destroy him._ A dark voice whispered. Something in his heart resisted, but it was no use. His flesh was already intoxicated by this new notion which had invaded his mind. Dreams of glory and love, importance and might--all that the world had to give, now permeated him and clouded his vision.

"I will, and no one will stop me!"

_Falling…_

With a loud thud the heavy Bible fell from his hand to the floor, where its pages splayed open. As Erik stooped to pick it up, he could not help but read: "For what shall it profit a man, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?

The words were like cool, refreshing water poured over his thirsty, desert-like soul. Yet they seemed to have the opposite effect on his flesh, where he felt a burning sensation akin to setting his skin on fire.

_Escape… I must escape!_

Erik dashed out of his room and looked about wildly, hoping to see light coming from a room—any room! At last he saw the light that shone underneath Alain's door and wavered before tiptoeing to it. Agitated, he knocked and waited for what seemed like an eternity. Alain opened the door as if he expected Erik. Everything Erik was going to say froze in his mouth, until Alain said it for him.

"_dieu m'aide s'il vous plaît_."


	11. Chapter 11

**Don't Speak of the Night**

**  
(Ne Parlez Pas de la Nuit)**

**By**

**Lady Trueword**

Chapter 11: Secrets and Confessions

Erik stared at Alain, half-dazed.

"I'm… sorry…" he sputtered. "I did not mean to wake you."

"Come in, come in," urged Alain until Erik felt compelled to step into the austere bedroom. He had never seen Alain's quarters before and now had an opportunity for a good look. The room contained only a few pieces of small furniture—a bed, a desk, a bookcase and a dresser. The rest of his belongings consisted of only clothing, books and papers. Clearly he loved to read. Erik gingerly took a seat on the small bed.

"Would you like some brandy?" Alain offered as he snatched a bottle from his bookcase.

"Merci," replied Erik with gratitude. He did not know quite what to say. How could he explain the shadow that had nearly engulfed his soul? He downed the glass of wine in one long gulp and wished for more. He wished he could drown out his misery with that one glass.

"So, what have you to confess?" asked Alain pointedly.

"Confess?" replied Erik, bewildered. "What makes you think that I have anything to confess?"

A wry grin spread across Alain's face. "I suppose my assumption comes from the instincts I acquired during my service in the priesthood. I could always tell when a parishioner needed my confidence."

"You? A priest? But you don't look like…" Erik bit his tongue as he struggled to imagine Alain as a priest.

"At present I look nothing like one, I suppose," remarked Alain ruefully. "And yet, there was a time…"

He looked misty-eyed and nostalgic, as if something in his past tugged at him and would not let go. "But you did not come to hear about me. Please, I am at your service."

Erik studied his adopted uncle as he contemplated his reply. Alain seemed sincere and straightforward enough. After some time Erik's shoulders dropped a little.

"Have you ever been tempted to… to… kill a man?"

Alain's calm reaction did not match Erik's expectations. The studious former cleric adjusted his spectacles.

"Oui," he replied. Then he waited, as if he knew Erik had more to say.

"I feel as if I have the chance to gain the entire world, and yet I am uneasy… especially now that it seems I have gained a _conscience_," Erik hissed the word.

"It is inevitable that your old self would be in bitter opposition to your new self. The two cannot tolerate each other. But who is this person that you wish to murder?"

"I cannot divulge his name. Suffice it to say, he has been most kind and generous to me, and yet, just now I felt a great urge to render his wife a widow."

"You do not, perchance, speak of Monsieur de Chagny?"

The shock on Erik's face only confirmed Alain's suspicions.

"No need to be alarmed. I promise that I will hold our conversation in the strictest confidence. But I am curious… why him?"

"He has something that I want," replied Erik hoarsely.

"Or perhaps, someone?"

Erik could not bring himself to answer. Instead, he turned the tables on his questioner.

"And why are you no longer a priest? Why did such a learned man become a fisherman?"

"Saint Peter was a fisherman."

"You know very well what I meant."

Alain sighed as he arose and went to his dresser, where one of Adèle's pink ribbons lay on top. She had made a dozen a week ago and had given them to her friends and family.

"Something to remember me by," she had told Erik sweetly.

Alain gently picked up the ribbon as if it were his most cherished possession.

"I was head priest at the Ancienne cathédrale Notre-Dame-de-Nazareth, in Vaison-la-Romaine. The townspeople revered me and my maman and my papa were so proud… Later I was asked to become a missionary and take over a parish in Algiers. At first I was reluctant to go, as it was so far away from everything I had known. But gradually I became convinced of my duty. I bid my dearest ones adieu and I went, not knowing what would await me."

"What happened then?" asked Erik impatiently.

"Simple… I fell in love."

Erik watched as the former priest twisted Adèle's ribbon between his fingers.

"Elle est votre fille, n'est pas? She's your daughter, isn't she?"

"Oui. But it is not what you think."

"I have no need for explanations."

"But you must, since you know this much already, and for Adèle's sake. You see, her maman was the daughter of the church caretaker. At first I did not think of her at all. Her father had begged me to put her in the parish girls' school as a favor, so I did. After three years, she blossomed into a beautiful young lady…"

"I know the feeling," Erik interrupted. "It is like watching a butterfly emerging from its cocoon."

"Exactly. Soon I was asking the Vatican to accept my resignation—I wanted to marry her. Nothing else would do. I asked her father for permission and he denied me at first. Eventually he relented, but Rome would not. I resigned from the parish and we were married by a Protestant minister. We lived in the desert and we were so happy…"

Erik waited during Alain's long pause. _Strange_, he thought, _how I am drawn to his story…_

"Unfortunately our happiness was to be short-lived. One night, she told me she was leaving me. I did not understand at the time, and I could not let her go. But she left with her father and her tribe, and I was shattered. I did not know she was pregnant at the time."

"Then Rome came… they tried all methods to persuade me to return, but I refused and I enraged them, so they destroyed my reputation… Made up all sorts of lurid stories about me… But I did not care. I looked everywhere for her… I wandered in the desert, but I never found them. Not until five years ago did I know about Adèle from one of her relatives."

"What happened to her mama? And her grandpapa?"

"They were… murdered during an ambush in the desert. Some say it was a mercenary caravan, but no one knows for sure. Her relatives finally allowed me to take her with me a year ago."

"But why all the secrecy?" asked Erik. "Why not tell her who you are?"

"A little girl needs a mother, and I know I will never marry again…"

A gentle knock at the door abruptly ended their conversation. Honoré opened the door and stepped in.

"Alain? Rene? Qu'est-ce qu'il y a? Can't sleep?"

"Oui, oui," they mumbled in unison. Erik rose and went to the door, but Honoré stopped him.

"Rene, I have something to say to you."

Erik winced as he wondered what he did wrong this time. Honoré had been a very demanding boss to work for. But the old man smiled as he gripped Erik's shoulder.

"Your maman and I are very proud of you."

The younger man felt as if he had had the wind knocked out of him. He could not speak, so overwhelmed was he by feelings of shock, unworthiness, guilt, and now, joy and elation. When he was a boy he had always wanted his maman or papa to say those words to him.

"You have worked extremely hard, and for that, we are grateful. Merci, Rene, merci."

Erik shook his head as tears flooded his eyes.

"I do not deserve such praise. If only you knew…"

But Honoré's smile was like the sun's warmth shining on a frostbitten soul.

"No one is perfect, my son. But we must all strive for the highest good."

"I don't know… if I am capable…"

"You don't expect to do it alone, do you? That is what we are here for," he said as he gathered Alain by his side. "We are the men of the Bonhomme family. We must be strong. We must overcome."

Erik nodded. "You are right," he said. He was sure that the shadow on his soul had retreated for now.

"I nearly forgot," said Honoré, "Madame de Chagny is going to pay you a visit tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" exclaimed Erik. "But I thought she was coming next week!"

"It seems that she has some comments about the last painting you did. I am sure they are nothing to worry about."

Erik nodded. "I hope so," he said, despite his misgivings. Christine had asked him to paint a scene from the old lair, which he had purposely rendered in such a fashion as if he had never seen the place before. He wanted to elude her curiosity, which had only increased every time they met.

_I hope she likes it anyway. It is my best painting to date._ When he finally lay down in bed and shut his eyes, he dreamt of her wearing that red dress from Don Juan Triumphant.

* * *

Erik listened as Adèle played a simple tune on the piano. She had improved, for sure, and he was quite proud of her achievements. He wondered if she would ever know the truth about her dear Uncle Alain.

"Monsieur Rene," he heard an angelic voice call to him.

"Madame de Chagny!" cried Adèle. "Did you hear me play?"

Erik stepped away from the piano as Christine gingerly stepped into the study, her porcelain cheeks flushed. _Merde_, he thought. Why did she always have to be so early? And so beautiful?

"Je suis désolé," she said, as her coachman brought in Erik's painting, draped by a white sheet. "Did I interrupt?"

He detected an edge to her voice he had rarely heard before.

"Not at all," Erik replied with a bow. He watched as she glided her silky-smooth hand over the piano.

"I did not know that you played, Adèle. Who is your teacher?"

"Rene, of course," replied Adèle proudly, much to her brother's chagrin. Christine's fiery gaze made him inwardly cringe.

"I did not know that you were so _talented_, monsieur. Perhaps you could play for us?"

He wondered what game she might be playing. Why did she look like she could throw daggers at him at any moment?

"Oui, oui!" said Adèle enthusiastically, even as Erik gave her the evil eye. He cleared his throat loudly.

"I… do not play so well, madame. I only know the basics," he replied.

"Tsk, tsk, monsieur is too modest, I'm sure," said Christine. "Please, it's been so long."

He started at the suddenly suppliant tone of her voice. It was as if she were a little girl again, begging him to sing and play for her, hungry for his touch.

"So… long?"

"Since I've heard good piano music."

"Very well, I will try," said Erik reluctantly. He carefully sat down on the piano bench and wondered what to play.

"Play her the duck song!" suggested Adèle. "I'm sure she'll like it."

Erik breathed a little sigh of relief. Christine had never heard his silly duck song, "les Canards dans l'étang" before. He had made it up for Adèle one afternoon after they visited Borély Park. Now he played the tune to its full silliness, and even tolerated Adèle's accompanying little dance. Christine thoroughly enjoyed it and clapped afterwards as if he had played a sonata.

"And now you must excuse us, Adèle. Madame de Chagny and I have some business to discuss."

"No need to hurry, monsieur Rene," replied Christine warmly. "I'm sure Adèle wouldn't mind another song."

Adèle's smile brightened until she saw her brother's grim visage. Taking the hint, she gave Christine her usual little bow and curtsey, and then a hug and a kiss.

"I leave now. But I will see you again soon. Au revoir!" she said before she pranced out of the room.

A brief awkward silence ensued. Christine seemed pensive, while Erik made every effort to avoid her gaze. Finally he spoke, endeavoring to be as professional as possible.

"I understand that you had some comments on my last painting?"

"Oui, mais…"

What was she waiting for? Erik was rapidly losing patience.

"I don't know if… if …"

Her lip quivered as she stared at him with her large, round doll eyes. He could hardly tolerate looking back.

"I will do whatever madame asks," he replied tersely.

She surprised him by rushing to the piano.

"Then play for me, I beg of you. Play the Music of the Night," she implored passionately.

Erik went numb as everything swirled around him.

"Music… of the night….? I… I don't understand…" he stuttered.

She pressed closer to him, her eyes piercing his soul. He tried to back away, but to no avail.

"You don't have to pretend with me. I don't know how you came here, but I know who you are…"

He barely managed to sidestep her.

"I am just an artist, madame," he insisted. He cleared his throat and paced the room, his heart threatening to explode out of his chest.

"Just an artist? Just an artist?" she cried, her voice climbing an octave with every syllable. She marched over to the painting and swiftly pulled off the sheet that covered it. Erik blinked when he saw the painting. It was good—he had used the finest technique, but it was all wrong. The scene was too bright, too light, too happy.

"This, monsieur, is not what I asked for!"

"I told madame before that you might be disappointed. I am but a simple country artist. I have no great skill…"

She cut him off. "Don't you dare tell me you have no great skill! Your work is très beau, monsieur!" she declared, as if to convince him.

"Then what more do you want?"

"You misunderstand. I said your work is beautiful, but it is _not_ what I asked for!"

Erik did his best to suppress his anger.

"My apologies, perhaps I misunderstood, madame," he replied icily. "Would you please describe that scene for me again?"

"I will," she replied before she proceeded to describe a scene they were all too familiar with, that first night when he took her down into his lair. When she finished, he could see the intensity of emotion that the memories had invoked within her. The color in her cheeks deepened, her voice grew soft and her chest heaved as she took quick, shallow breaths.

"What a strange scene. I suppose that the curious girl might have been brave enough to tear off that monster's mask and see what he really looked like."

Christine's smile froze at the mention of that word.

"He was not a monster," she whispered, her words barely audible.

"Pardonnez-moi?"

"I said, he was not a monster!" she declared with conviction.

Erik was stunned. To hear her say it affected him more than he anticipated. It was all he could do to muster the strength to speak. He cleared his throat and shook his head.

"I am afraid… madame… that such a scene would be too difficult for me to paint. Such a sad character… such darkness… such despair…"

She gave him the same sympathetic gaze he had seen so many times before. In the past it had infuriated him, but now it only made her more angelic, more beautiful in his eyes. It made his spine tingle.

"You're right. I shouldn't have imposed it upon you… Je suis très désolé…" Her eyes started to water. Why should she bring up the past again? If this was her erstwhile angel, it would only bring him pain.

"Let us paint happier things, shall we?" she said with a tight-lipped smile. "Perhaps a scene at the beach?"

He was grateful for her change of subject.

"I will do my best, madame," he said with a stiff bow, trying assiduously to avoid her dewy eyes. "And now, if you don't mind, I have to prepare for my work at the gallery."

"Oui, I should go," she replied. He saw her disappointment and longing, but he could not yield, even if he wanted to—there was too much at stake. He carried his painting to her carriage and helped her in.

"Au revoir, monsieur Bonhomme," she replied softly before she got into her transport.

"Au revoir, madame de Chagny."

He felt her gloved hand one last time before seeing her off.

"Ma chère Christine…" he muttered before he went back inside.

What had he done? He could have taken advantage of her. Why didn't he?

He remembered the angel's warning. _You must reacquaint yourself with her, never revealing your past. If she finds out who you are, it cannot be your doing._

"Are you all right, Rene?"

He was glad to hear Sylvie's pleasant voice.

"Maman," he said as he turned around and gave her a gentle squeeze. She was pleased and surprised by it.

"Grandmaman and I want to sew your costume for Madame de Chagny's ball. Adèle thought you might make a good pirate," she said as she held up an eye patch.

Erik took the eye patch and wore it over his right eye.

"Oui, I am the dread pirate… what is my name?"

Sylvie laughed.

"I can't wait—it's been a long time since I've gone to a ball."

"A long time? I would not have thought that an artist like you would be interested in balls."

"Oh, but I used to love them when I was a young girl…" chattered Sylvie happily. "My papa and maman would take me…" Her voice dropped off and her eyes clouded at the mention of her parents.

"They were wealthy at one time, then?" asked Erik. Sylvie had added only more fuel to his speculations about her background.

"Oui," she said with an unusual reticence. "Anyway, would a pirate's costume do? Or would you prefer a different character?"

He grinned and gave her his best pose as a swashbuckling buccaneer.

"I shall be a pirate, of course. No one has more fun than pirates."

"Good. Oh, this is going to be such a wonderful event!" said Sylvie as Grandmaman rushed into the house.

"Rene! Good news!" she declared as she hurried towards him. He grimaced when she pinched his cheeks.

"You are lucky! I found at least five young women who would make you a good wife."

"Five wives?" replied Erik with a chuckle. "Don't you think that's a bit much?"

The slap to his shoulder was a little harder than he had anticipated.

"Grandmaman!" he cried in surprise.

"C'est bien fait pour toi! That's what you get for jesting with Grandmaman. Now, time to get serious about your future, Rene. I want to hold your _infants_ in my arms next year!"

Infants? Erik glanced at Sylvie, who seemed to approve. He looked back at Grandmaman and saw the excitement in her eyes, and could not refuse.

_Maybe she is right…_

"Fine. I'll meet them next week."

_Next week? What am I saying? No one could possibly match my angel…_

Grandmaman clasped his hands excitedly. "Oh, Rene!" she said as she began to cry tears of joy. "I will contact them at once!" she proclaimed after dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief.

_It's probably for the best. If I can just make it through that upcoming ball..._ His head started to hurt as he thought of it all.

_Angel, what am I doing? I had always wanted a wife, but she had to be Christine… Had to be…_

"Trust in the Lord, and lean not on your own understanding," he heard in reply.

Erik glanced sideways and saw Alain. How did he know? The fisherman turned and went out of the house towards the harbor. Through the window Erik could see bits of the blue ocean looming in the distance, calling to him.

"Guide me, Lord, as I sail into uncharted territory," he prayed. "Keep me safe and help me to be brave."


End file.
